


borne like a vapor

by mellyflori



Series: Your Wish is My Command [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t look like a lamp, is the thing.  It looks like a squat, ceramic teapot, and d’Artagnan’s mother collects teapots. She might very well like this one with its pretty ochre color and the little design painted around it.  It might just be a wave or it might be letters and d’Artagnan can’t really tell with the dust on it so he swipes at it with his thumb a few times.  He’s just trying to wipe the dust off, that’s all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nat helped me spin this. Cee validated this. Dee and Karen made the most fantastic encouraging noises over this. I am the luckiest girl around to have all of them.
> 
> It is remarkably silly, but I'm utterly in love with the idea, and I need a break from the heavy research on the impending angst-fest. So let's have a bit of fun, shall we?

It doesn’t look like a lamp, is the thing. It looks like a squat, ceramic teapot, and d’Artagnan’s mother collects teapots. She might very well like this one with its pretty ochre color and the little design painted on it. It might just be a wave or it might be letters and d’Artagnan can’t really tell with the dust on it so he swipes at it with his thumb a few times. He’s just trying to wipe the dust off, that’s all.

It’s fall, not even very cold out, so the chill that runs up his hand takes him by surprise. He’s still shaking it off a minute or so later, sucking at the pad of his thumb to get it warm, when he hears the footsteps approaching.

D’Artagnan is in the cramped back room of his local charity shop, bored on a Saturday afternoon and poking around. He assumes that the person coming is the proprietor about to inquire if he needs help. It’s not.

It's a man a few years older than d’Artagnan himself. His shaggy hair and full beard give him the look of a mountain man in from the cold, but his dark sunglasses, heavy wool peacoat, and the garishly patterned knitted scarf wound around his neck make him look like every asshole who has ever muttered passive aggressively when d’Artagnan took more than four seconds to order his coffee.

The stranger pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and heaves a deeply irritated sigh.

“I _literally_ just sat down."

“I’m sorry?” d’Artagnan says.

“Just. You people always have the worst possible timing. But no, it’s fine. Whatever I was doing could wait, I’m sure.” Whoever this is, he doesn’t sound “sure," he sounds “irritated."

“I’m afraid I don’t understand," d'Artagnan says.

The man arches an eyebrow. “Surely you’re joking. You are holding it in your hand and this,” he gestures between the two of them, "doesn’t work unless you rub it so…” Seeing the d’Artagnan still looks confused he drops his head to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers and give another one of those irritated sighs. “Christ,” he breathes, drawing it out into a three syllable word.

Irritated-and-Grumpy waves at the teapot, “To start, put that down. I really don’t know what would happen if you dropped it, and I don’t care to find out.” When d’Artagnan slides it back on to the shelf Irritated-and-Grumpy’s face relaxes almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you. Now, that’s…” d’Artagnan watches as the man waves his hand a bit, clearly at a loss for how to continue the sentence. In the end, he just gives a disgusted sigh and says, “That’s my lamp."

“What?"

Irritated-and-Grumpy clearly enunciates every word of his next sentence. “That. Is. My. Lamp.” D’Artagnan must still look confused because he continues, “Right, I know it doesn’t look like a lamp to you, it probably looks like just some old crockery. Still, it's a lamp; my lamp, in fact, and…” he grits his teeth to finish. “You rubbed it."

“I… rubbed it,” d’Artagnan says, still not quite understanding. “It’s your lamp, and I—“ The penny drops and d’Artagnan’s mouth falls open and Irritated-and-Grumpy rolls his eyes. D’Artagnan looks back and forth between the lamp and the man who he now knows is its genie and says, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?"

“I suppose you could assume that there’s some other logical reason why I, someone who doesn’t know you and _clearly_ does not want to be having this conversation would be standing here talking to you. Perhaps my hobby is lying to strangers only to have to justify myself for,” he checks his watch, “seven minutes and counting.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Or you could spend a wish making me prove it."

D’Artagnan’s mother would tell you that he’s always believed the best of people, even, apparently, bitchy genies in pea coats. “Do I just call you Genie?"

The stranger bristles. “No. You most certainly do _not_. This isn’t a fucking Disney movie and I have a name. Though, if I _were_ having you on I’d force you to call me Exalted of the Lamp like—,” he stops himself. “You can call me Athos."

“D’Artagnan. Pleasure to meet you.” Athos gives him a look that says ‘I’m sure,’ and takes another drink of his coffee. “How many wishes do I get?” d’Artagnan asks.

Athos swallows his drink. “Mmmmm… ten? It’s usually ten, right?"

D’Artagnan is too busy being excited that it’s not three, and he misses something critical in Athos’ tone so he just nods, “Ten sounds great, yeah."

“So, you want ten wishes for whatever you truly desire?"

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan answers. “I want ten wishes."

“Lovely,” Athos says, pulling his sunglasses back down onto his face. “Better buy that, then.” He gestures at the lamp, still on the shelf, and then turns and walks out, calling, “Rub it again in a few days when you know what you want,” over his shoulder.

 

D’Artagnan buys the lamp, two paperback detective novels, and an ice cream maker. He watches as the clerk wraps the lamp carefully and stuffs it inside the ice cream maker for the trip home. In his flat he pulls everything out and puts the lamp on the worktop in his kitchen.

It sits there while he makes dinner. He catches glimpses of it while he’s stirring the chicken and walks past it on his way to put the dirty dishes in the sink. It’s still sitting there after he’s watched a bit of TV and checked his email. He manages to resist its pull until he’s brushing his teeth.

Walking into the kitchen, toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, d’Artangna folds his arms on the counter and props his chin on them, staring at the lamp.

He’s still halfway sure that Athos was fucking with him, and really there’s only one way to tell. He grabs the dishrag from the sink and scrubs at the painted design on the side again. Nothing happens. He waits a few minutes, staring at it some more, and then swipes his finger over the surface a few times and waits. A solid minute passes.

“No, you’re right; you should absolutely jerk me away from whatever I’m doing to prove your stupid theories rather than taking my word for it,” Athos says, sauntering out of d’Artagnan’s spare bedroom. “Taking my word for it would be an efficient use of time and wouldn’t result in anyone having to have yet another pointless conversation today and that would just be silly. Absolutely."

He’s still wearing the scarf but the pea coat is gone and instead of the paper travel cup he’s carrying an oversized mug. Taking an exaggerated sip of his coffee, Athos looks at d’Artagnan over the lip of the cup. “Did you need more proof or can I get back to my book?"

No, that’s all the proof d’Artagnan needs. Now that he’s convinced there’s only one thing he wants. “Do I have to ask any special way?"

“Yes. The ritual states that you must turn four times widdershins and hold your finger to your nose while saying ‘O, Limitless Being of Power, I humbly request..’ and then whatever you wish.”

D’Artagnan stares at him, but Athos’ face is perfectly straight. “Limitless Being of Power?” he asks.

Athos perfectly arches one eyebrow. “Really, d’Artagnan, you shouldn’t give me opportunities like this. One of these times, I’m going to make it sound believable enough that you’ll just go with it, and I have a really nice camera in my phone. It could get very embarrassing for you."

“You have a phone?” d’Artagnan asks, clearly not having considered the life of the modern genie.

“Yes. It’s an iPhone. Did you bring me clear over here to talk about my phone?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head, “No, sorry. I’m just still getting my bearings about how this all works. So I just ask?” Athos nods and takes another drink. “Okay. There’s… there’s this girl."

Athos puts his hand up. “Stop. I don’t have the energy for this tonight. Do you know Cloisters?” D’Artagnan nods; it’s a church that’s been converted to a coffee shop and he walks past it almost every day. “Meet me there tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll talk about it then."

“Okay,” d’Artagnan says, and Athos nods once and walks out the front door, still sipping his coffee.

 

  
Athos isn’t there when d’Artagnan arrives, so he orders a drink and a bacon sandwich for himself and takes a seat by the window. Eight minutes after ten the bell on the door jingles and Athos strolls in; the peacoat is back, but today’s scarf is more subdued.

The friendly brunette behind the counter greets him by name and rings up his ‘usual’. Athos smiles at her and d’Artagnan takes a second to watch how it transforms his face. His face creases with deep laugh lines and his eyes actually twinkle. When he turns to face d’Artagnan the smile is gone and d’Artagnan tries not to take it personally.

“Right,” Athos says, settling into the chair across the table. “Out with it, then. Tell me about this girl."

“I met her at work. Her name is Constance and she’s _amazing_ ,” d’Artagnan says.

Athos scowls into his paper cup. “I’m going to need significantly more coffee.”

For the next half hour, d’Artagnan describes this angel who has stolen his heart. She’s a supervisor in another department, competent and bright. Everyone loves her. When d’Artagnan started with the company Constance was seeing someone else, but that relationship has recently ended and so now he thinks he has a chance. She’s pretty and kind and rescues puppies who’ve been swept into storm drains during floods or something. To be honest, Athos wasn’t really paying attention.

“Just so we’re clear, I can’t make her love you. It’s on the ’not within my powers’ list along with births and deaths.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head, “I wouldn’t want that. I don’t… I don’t want to force her, but I can’t help thinking that if I could just get her to notice me. If she does and still doesn’t want to date me, I’ll understand. I just want a chance.”

Athos takes another drink. “I know I’m going to regret this, but did you have an idea of how you would go about that?"

He’s been at this job for a few hundred years now and very little surprises him. Somehow, even with all of the experience of his long years, Athos’ reaction to d’Artagnan’s suggestion is a long, uncomfortable stretch of stunned silence.

“Let me…” Athos pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Let me get this perfectly clear. You want the clouds to spell out your name?”

His smile indicates that d’Artagnan is blissfully unaware of how fucking ridiculous that idea sounds. Athos can think of only one way to deal with that ignorance.

“Are you aware of how fucking ridiculous that idea sounds?”

D’Artagnan looks as though his favorite dog has been kicked into speeding traffic. There’s the slightest wince from Athos as he deals with the face of a wounded puppy looking upset over a wounded puppy.

“Let’s look at this logically. First, that’s going to make her remarkably suspicious about her own state of mind, and the worst way to get a woman to notice you is for her to believe you’re triggering symptoms of a psychotic break.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” d’Artagnan says.

Athos continues, “Also, it doesn’t even really say anything about you, it’s just your name. Why don’t we think about other options.”

Athos would never say this out loud, but it’s really a question of standards. He could have gotten rid of so many of his punters so much faster if he were willing to put his name on shitty wishes. It’s a kind of cruel fate that he simply refuses to be associated with shoddy work or poor design and so he ends up talking people out of wishes that would get his work done so much faster.

“Tell me something she does every day,” Athos says.

“She reads the same paper every day, she likes the crossword.”

“Excellent, this could work. Now tell me something you like to do. Something you’re good at.”

D’Artagnan worries at his bottom lip for a moment before his eyes go bright and he says, “I’m quite good with animals! Dogs, especially.”

Athos’ blank stare is a thing of beauty. “Of course you are,” he says. He takes a drink of his coffee and rubs his forehead. “Does she know this?”

“Well, I arranged a day at the dog park for all the dog owners in the company last year,” d’Artagnan says.

“Of course you did.” Athos takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose as though it were punctuation. “This is what is going to happen, pay attention.”

 

  
D’Artagnan stops at the newsagent on Monday morning and gets a copy of the same paper he knows Constance reads. The crossword is not unusually easy, not enough to raise suspicion, but a remarkably high number of the answers are words with romantic associations. Bliss. Adoring. Besotted. Kiss. D’Artagnan loses track at some point. Near the end, and diabolically plain, is 'tail-less black dog.'

“It’s priming,” Athos had explained. “It won’t convince her of anything, won’t change her mind or force her, but when she comes to you for the last clue, she’ll have all of these other thoughts in her head. If you’ve a chance, this is a good way to find it.”

Constance appears over the wall of d’Artagnan’s cubicle just after eleven, her smile bright and her hair twisted into a bun with a pencil shoved into it. She is perfectly lovely, and it’s all d’Artagnan can do to not sigh like a cartoon character.

“I was wondering,” she says. “Could I get your help with something silly?”

“’Course, you know I’m here for anything you need.” d’Artagnan tries to make his smile welcoming but not creepy.

She shows him the clue and he smiles and says,“Schipperke.” He tries not to wallow in the way her face lights up when the word fits in the open squares.

“You’re a wonder, thanks!” she says with an enormous grin, and then she’s gone. D’Artagnan waits to see what the rest of the day brings. He waits to see what the rest of the week brings. He passes by her cubicle and smiles when he meets her in the hall and though she is always pleasant, that’s all she is.

 

Friday night, d’Artagnan takes the lamp and puts it on the kitchen counter. He spends all evening sneaking looks at it. Late Saturday morning, after a run in the park and breakfast with his sister, he finally gives in and rubs it, that same chill running up his arm.

Athos comes in from the living room, his dark sunglasses on even in the relative dimness of the kitchen. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and the coffee mug he’s carrying is essentially a soup bowl with a handle. His expression is brittle at best.

“I—,” d’Artagnan starts but Athos silences him with a palm over d’Artagnan’s mouth.

“Shhh,” Athos says, very, very quietly. He walks to d’Artagnan’s refrigerator and squints into the light until he finds leftover noodles from d’Artagnan’s takeaway dinner the night before. Snatching a pair of chopsticks from the crock next to the stove, Athos stands with one hip against the counter and shovels cold sesame noodles into his mouth, raising a damning eyebrow every time d’Artagnan opens his mouth to try and speak.

Eventually, Athos jams the chopsticks down into what’s left of the noodles and puts the box on the counter. He picks up his coffee and whispers, “Now, quietly, what do you want?”

“Are you _hungover_?” d’Artagnan asks in a low voice.

“You really are the cleverest. Yes, today I am an object lesson in why you should not go drinking with genies… or any of their boyfriends possessing equally supernatural alcohol tolerances.”

“There are other genies?” d’Artagnan asks and Athos winces at his volume.

“Yes, and if that’s what the rest of this conversation is going to be about I’m going to leave and come back when it no longer feels like a cat was sick in my head.”

D’Artagnan takes Athos’ mug, fills it from the pot he brewed for himself before his run and holds up the milk and sugar for Athos to see. He shakes his head as little as possible to get his point across and gratefully takes the mug from d’Artagnan.

Rummaging in the cupboard, d’Artagnan finds a bottle of aspirin. He fills a glass with water and goes into the living room, setting both the painkillers and the water on the coffee table. In the kitchen again, he takes Athos’ coffee and puts it on the counter. Taking his elbow as gently as he can, d’Artagnan steers Athos toward the couch.

“Go back to sleep,” d’Artagnan whispers. “My love life can wait a bit. I’ve a feeling that hungover genies can’t be bothered to talk me out of shitty wishes, and I need you in top form.”

The smile Athos gives him is bleary, surprised and oddly pleased. He pats d’Artagnan’s cheek before sinking down onto the cushions and falling sideways. Athos gropes blindly for the crocheted throw draped over the back of the couch until d’Artagnan takes pity and drapes it over him.

He leaves Athos there burrowed into the blanket d’Artagnan’s grandmother had made for him when he moved into his first apartment. Athos’ face is slack with sleep already, his brow smoothed out and his mouth just falling open. d’Artagnan watches him from the doorway, listening to the almost inaudible snore, and tries not to think about how even though his cheek is cold where Athos’ fingers touched it, the rest of his body is flushed and warm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a genie, d’Artagnan. I grant wishes. I don’t read minds and thank fuck for that. I’d hate to have any insight into ninety percent of what goes through peoples’ heads on an average day. Wall-to-wall solipsistic thinking about telly and beer and who does and doesn’t want to fuck you and how you’d fuck them. Then, if there’s any room left over, it’s all about food.”
> 
> D’Artagnan opens his mouth to protest and then thinks back on some of his most recent mental meanderings. He snaps his mouth shut and Athos’s raised eyebrow says, ‘See?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who had such amazing things to say after the last chapter. Getting feedback makes my entire day every time it happens, (comments and kudos are better for me than cookies and lemon bars, and that's saying something) and the feedback I got on this was just incredible. It's a silly-sounding premise but I love it so much and I'm so happy about all the amazing people who are coming along for the ride!

D’Artagnan is in the kitchen working on lunch, sandwiches using the leftovers of last night’s roast, nothing special, when he hears Athos stir on the couch. He pours a fresh vat of coffee into Athos’ mug and sets it down on the coffee table along with another handful of aspirin.

It’s another seven minutes before Athos joins him in the kitchen. The expression on his face is difficult to read. He seems as though someone has taken his newspaper and replaced it with an exceptionally nice bottle of brandy. He’s confused, perhaps a bit concerned, but not unpleased. “Thank you,” he says. “For the coffee and your hospitality. You needn’t have, of course. My skills are not impaired just because I am.”

“I know that now, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d known it then. I mean, I’m assuming you’ve got a life, too. You’ve got things you want. Right then you wanted to go back to bed, and it just. We could both get what we wanted.” D’Artagnan is babbling now and he knows it. He knows that this is a business arrangement and that technically he can order Athos into anything he wants for another nine wishes. But something about Athos’ miserable hung-over face was enough to put the voice of d’Artagnan’s mum in the back of his head, reminding him that people don’t live in the world alone, that you can’t know anyone else’s life, that it only takes a second to be kind.

Athos’ coffee has reached a comfortable gulping temperature, but he somehow refrains himself from opening up his throat and sucking it back like a university student with a beer bong. It is a heroic effort. He’s trying to avoid the incredibly direct gaze of this kid who should just be another punter but who sees too much.

“Right,” Athos says, setting his mug down on the counter. “Enough of that, time for business. Did our crossword not get her attention?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m a genie, d’Artagnan. I grant wishes. I don’t read minds and thank fuck for that. I’d hate to have any insight into ninety percent of what goes through peoples’ heads on an average day. Wall-to-wall solipsistic thinking about telly and beer and who does and doesn’t want to fuck you and how you’d fuck them. Then, if there’s any room left over, it’s all about food.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth to protest and then thinks back on some of his most recent mental meanderings. He snaps his mouth shut and Athos’s raised eyebrow says, ‘See?’

“No,” d’Artagnan says. “I mean, it worked just as you'd planned, she came to me for the answer. She seemed pleased when I knew it, really cheery, but that was it. So I want another chance.” At Athos’ stare, he says, “Maybe?”

“Mmm,” Athos says. “I’m against the idea of pushing women, there’s enough of that in the rest of their lives, but I’m going to allow that it might have been an off day for her and say we take one more shot.” He refills his enormous mug from the coffee pot. “I do, however, think you should have to work for this one. Let’s talk about what else is going on in her life.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan says, sliding a paper towel and a plate with one of the sandwiches across the counter to Athos.

What else is going on in Constance’s life is a subject d’Artagnan knows more about than he’d expected to. She talks about her weekends when she’s in the break room, she chats with her friends at lunch, she even engages d’Artagnan in conversation from time to time. D’Artagnan takes a second to be surprised how much he’s picked up from those little moments. He’s beginning to think he needs a serious hobby. Still, he tells Athos about her weekend hikes with her mother, the trip to Italy she’s planning, her pregnant sister and how excited Constance is for the baby.

“She’s never been an auntie before, she’s looking forward to babysitting and getting to spend time with the baby. Isn’t that wonderful?” d’Artangnan sighs. Athos tries to smile and hum in agreement, but he only succeeds in twisting up one side of his face into a grimace and making a sound like he’s stepped in something unfortunate. D’Artagnan is oblivious.

“I even heard her talking about wanting to learn to quilt so she could make the baby a blanket; she’s so incredible.” Athos’ eyebrows perk up at this and d’Artangnan looks intrigued. “What? Are you thinking that I could become a some kind expert on it and give her pointers? I could do it for her! I could make one that wins a prize and give her that!”

Athos takes an enormous bite of his sandwich and waits for d’Artagnan to tire himself out.

“I _had_ been thinking that you might develop a skill set equal to teaching a local class in it. Then we could make sure she sees a notice talking about it and signs up. But by all means, if you want to go completely overboard and perhaps make her a baby quilt out of all the clouds we didn’t use to spell your name out last time, you go right ahead.” He takes another bite of his sandwich, the horseradish is really quite spectacular.

D’Artagnan winces at the thinly-veiled rebuke. “That would be better, yeah. Probably less time involved as well.”

“It’s something she’s been thinking about doing anyway, and when she’s finished she’ll have something she already wanted. This way if it doesn’t work, it hasn’t been an enormous waste of her time, just yours.”

“Have you always been this particular about peoples’ wishes?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Always.”

“And does it work?”

“Nearly always.”

“When does it _not_ work?”

Athos thinks about the last time he was forced into a wish he hadn’t agreed to, the last time the combined force of his eyebrow and tone hadn’t worked. He remembers telling the punter that there would be a literal interpretation, that it could end badly. He remembers the people of that tiny town spending weeks shoveling decaying rose petals off of every flat surface for a twenty mile radius and how it had affected the crops and the water supply worse than even the blow to his dignity.

There must be something on his face, or d’Artagnan’s brain becomes more receptive the more besotted and moony he gets over Constance, because he just says, “Nevermind. Forget I asked.” He turns the subject back to the plans. “So I teach a local class in making baby quilts?”

Athos’ face falls back into its standard mask of bored exasperation. “I did say you’d have to work for this one. You want results, you have to put forth effort. Even in wishes. Especially in wishes.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan says, with a determined nod. “Okay.”

Athos wipes his mouth and drops his paper towel on the counter. Picking up his mug, he says, “Meet me at the restaurant across the street from your office at seven on Tuesday night, we’ll go over the details.”

“How do you know where I work?” d’Artagnan asks and Athos shoots that raised eyebrow back over his shoulder as he walks away.

The front door has just clicked shut behind him when d’Artagnan realizes that Athos’ gloves are still sitting next to his lunch plate. He drops them on the table next to the door and makes a mental note to give them to Athos the next time they meet.

 

  
D’Artagnan spends the next few days poking around the internet looking at quilting sites and wondering when he’ll suddenly have all of this information about it in his mind, how Athos will manage it. Athos, for his part, spends those days worrying about the logistics, figuring out where to put slight pressure and where to take the pressure off. He also spends a not-insignificant amount of time trying to keep his brain from calling this plan ‘Operation Last Chance For Romance’ and failing _utterly_.

He meets his best friend for lunch on Monday and gripes about the amount of sleep he’s losing. “I’m spending all my time working on getting this floppy-haired little shit a chance with the girl of his dreams. I mean really, I could just give him an online dating subscription and go back to bed. He’s smart and attractive and people like that don’t really need my help with this sort of thing.”

Stopping with a fork full of salad poised in front of his mouth, Athos’ dining companion says, “Tell me more about how he’s smart and attractive.”

“Fuck off,” Athos says, knocking a glass of water into the other man’s lap.

 

  
The restaurant is crowded, but d’Artagnan has managed to grab a spot at a table anyway. It’s right in the middle of the room, and not where he might have wished to be sitting when they have this conversation, but it’s the best he can manage. Athos is late again, but it’s not as though they’re due anywhere.

“Good lord,” Athos says, flopping into the chair opposite d’Artagnan. “I hadn’t realized what a terrific cliché this place would be. Why do all of these places have the same decor? It’s like spending an evening in your granny’s attic.” He looks at d’Artagnan. “And I do mean _your_ granny’s attic. My gran would never have collected traffic signs, even if they’d had them at the time.”

“How can you be sure? I mean, if she predates them…” he’s teasing but Athos rises to the bait.

“She was a member of the aristocracy, d’Artagnan. Even if you consider the historical equivalent, I hardly think a woman of her status would have chosen to make a stop on the way home from a ball just so she could pilfer the ’Reims -Thirty-six leagues’ sign to hang in the kitchen.”

The server takes that opportunity to stop by and ask for their order. Athos turns and flashes her that smile again, the one that d’Artagnan had only ever seen directed at the barista at Cloisters. It completely transforms him again, makes his eyes dance and his face look open and approachable. “I am ready, yes.” Athos orders a bottle of wine for the two of them and the server’s eyes go wide.

When she leaves, d’Artagnan asks, “How much did you just spend on wine?”

“Whatever it took to get me a bottle that would make this conversation tolerable. Now, shall we get on with the matter at hand?”

D’Artagnan knows he should probably find Athos’ attitude dismissive and rude, but he’s starting to enjoy it. Whatever else a conversation with Athos is, it’s not ordinary. “Are we going to talk about it here? With all these people?”

“Yes, d’Artagnan. We are going to sit right here and discuss how a genie is going to make your second wish come true. Maybe when we’re done, we’ll discuss the history of my lamp.” He never takes his eyes from d’Artagnan’s face, even when d’Artagnan starts to look around nervously to see who is looking at them, who might overhear. No one is looking at them. As is so often the case, they’re all too concerned with themselves.

D’Artagnan looks back at Athos and smiles as if to say, ‘I stand corrected.’ Just to reinforce it, he raises his voice slightly and says, “I also want to learn all about the tooth fairy and dragons.” He doesn’t look around, he knows no one is looking back.

Athos smiles. It’s the first time d’Artagnan has seen that smile directed at him and the way it creases Athos’ face does something odd to d’Artagnan’s breathing. He chalks it up to being satisfied with having Athos’ approval for once. The wine comes, d’Artagnan orders something to eat, and the planning starts.

Athos tells d’Artagnan that in the morning there will be lesson plans in his inbox for each of the three Saturdays of the class. He should read them and once he’s finished he’ll have all the information he needs to teach the class in his head, he shouldn’t think about how that’s going to happen. Constance has seen a notification about the class and signed up for it already, the instructor wasn’t listed. The location is a local quilt shop, d’Artagnan will need to be there a half an hour before the class starts. The owner will greet him like an old friend, he should just go with it.

“I should just… go with it,” d’Artagnan says.

“Look, you’ve told me a great deal about this Constance, and if you can’t think on your feet a little in situations like this, I’m fairly sure you’re not ready to be in a relationship with her.”

Shrugging, d’Artagnan concedes the point.

 

  
The night before his first class d’Artagnan stands in front of the closet for a full hour before he gives up and rubs the lamp. Athos strolls in from the hallway, a large glass of red wine in his right hand.

“Please tell me you’ve chosen to forget about this wish and you just want a succession of cheap flings instead, they’re so much easier to arrange.” All at once the scene in front of him seems to register. Athos looks from the closet to d’Artagnan and back to the closet. “ _No_.”

“I just… I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“Surely you have friends. Family. _Someone_.”

“Not anyone who lives close. Not anyone who I trust to tell the truth.”

“You realize you have entirely the wrong genie for this. No, you can’t realize that. Nevermind. The point is, this is outside my area. I grant wishes and that’s it. I am not here to dress you for them.” He turns to leave and d’Artagnan’s voice stops him.

“Please. Athos, please.” His tone changes slightly as he smiles. “You wouldn’t want me to go out there as an ambassador for your wish fulfillment looking terrible, would you? You won’t grant me shitty wishes and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want me executing good wishes the way I would if I dressed myself.”

Athos pinches the bridge of his nose again and settles on the end of the bed. “Fine, let’s see what your options are.”

The hour they spend looking at clothes is not altogether unpleasant. Athos has a good eye and no time for niceties and so the decisions are made without much dithering. D’Artagnan briefly takes offense that Athos doesn’t like his favorite shirt.

“My sister says it brings out my eyes!”

“If that’s what your sister says, I can see why you wanted me here. Wear the white one. No, the… No, not the cream - Are you deliberately being obtuse or do you actually have an issue with your retinas? Yes, that one. The white one. With the jeans you have on. Just wash them before tomorrow.”

“I should wear jeans? Are you sure?”

Athos tips back some more of his wine. “Do you wear jeans to work? Has Constance ever seen you in them?” D’Artagnan shakes his head. “Then trust me, wear the jeans. You’re young, use your physique while you have it.” He closes his eyes as he finishes the last of his wine, so Athos misses the deep flush that creeps up d’Artagnan’s neck, tinging the tips of his ears pink.

“Right. I’m out of wine just as there are no more outfits to consider. My timing is perfect.” He stands and smoothes his sweater down against his torso as he walks toward the door. “Don’t forget to read the lesson plans.” Athos stops for a second just inside the door and simply looks at d’Artagnan. Something in his gaze softens. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Before d’Artagnan can thank him, Athos is gone.

 

  
Even knowing, even having seen the genie at work, d’Artagnan is still caught breathless at the way the information on his class is just there in his head as soon as he’s read the lesson plans. He wears the jeans and the white shirt and he treats the shop owner like an old friend and the afternoon goes off without a hitch. Constance is surprised to see him but not displeased. She asks him about how he got into the hobby and he spins her a tale about his grandmother teaching him. Which is mostly true, as long as you replace ‘grandmother’ with ‘grandfather’ and ‘quilting’ with ‘football.’ Still, it works in the moment.

The night before the second class d’Artagnan has a crisis of confidence about how to behave with Constance and summons Athos to do some conversational roleplay with him. Athos looks at him as though d’Artagnan has suggested that he might enjoy long, romantic walks through the sewer pipes.

“Have you _completely_ lost your mind?”

In the end, they split what’s left of the tea d’Artagnan brewed that afternoon and talk about why d’Artagnan is so worried. He’s anxious, he’s always been good at flings but never at real relationships, his oldest sister is getting divorced and d’Artagnan is scared of getting involved only to have it end like that. Athos lets him talk until there isn’t anything left to say. For a few seconds, a handful of moments, he even forgets to keep the look of aristocratic boredom on his face.

 

On the Friday before the last class, Athos has been conned into an evening of dinner and movies with the only other genie he’s ever met. (Well, aside from the first one, and that one doesn’t even bear thinking about.) He feels the pull of the lamp and spares a second to mutter “Well, shit.”

“Oh!” Aramis perks up. “Is it your floppy-haired little shit again?” He ignores the brief look of irritation from Athos. “Is it time for another wish?”

“No, God, it’s so much worse. He’s most likely just looking for advice. Or to have a fucking chat, as if I’m some supernatural therapist.”

Porthos stares. “He thinks you’re the genie Dr. Phil?” Athos glares. “Oh, that’s it, we’re coming. I’m not missing this.”

Athos feels the lamp pulling him again and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, follow me.” Porthos slips his hand into Aramis’, and they’re off.

When he walks into d’Artagnan’s kitchen Athos has a wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other and a look on his face that defies description. It’s as though every option in the world is simultaneously the _worst_ option.

“I feel I ought to apologize for what’s about to happen,” he says. “But I’m not entirely sure to whom I should apologize.”

D’Artagnan looks confused at the statement, and then even more confused as the other two men come into the room. Athos clears his throat. “This is Aramis,” he says, pointing to the man with the rakish beard. “This is Porthos,” Athos indicates the slightly taller man with the enormous smile and shorter hair.

“And— And you are?”

Aramis grins at him. “Go ahead, guess.” D’Artagnan looks at Athos, but Athos only rolls his eyes.

“I’m assuming one of you is also a genie? I don’t want to try and guess which, though. I’m sure I’ll get it wrong.”

Porthos laughs. “Nice! Most people just assume. They see me, big dark-skinned guy with the gold earring and the loud laugh and they think it must be me. Fucking tedious, I can tell you.” He slings an arm around Aramis’ neck. “Nah, it’s this one.”

“Yes,” Athos says. “This is Aramis, O Exalted of the Lamp. Forever swanning about in layers of scarves and guyliner.”

Aramis bristles. “It’s not _guyliner_ it’s fucking eyeliner. Stop—,” he realizes Athos is fucking with him and composes himself. “I happen to like the look. You’re just angry that after three hundred years I’m the closest thing you have to a best friend.”

For a split second, there’s a softness in Athos’ eyes, a smile that isn’t sardonic at all.

“So, are you… do you have his lamp?” d’Artagnan asks Porthos.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” Aramis says.

“Just your garden variety boyfriend,” Porthos says. “Though it would be fun,” he winks at d’Artagnan. “I’d use it to get him to do all sorts of unspeakable stuff.”

Aramis beams at him, tugging him in by the collar for a swift, slick kiss. “Oh, my love, you’ve absolutely no need of the lamp for that.”

Athos clears his throat. “If everyone is finished playing cocktail party, can we get on with whatever it was that d’Artagnan felt the need to summon me for. On a Friday night. During dinner.”

D’Artagnan looks startled and then chagrined. “Right. About that…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Athos,” Aramis calls. “Hand me that wine so I can pour some for the rest of us.”
> 
> Athos’ look says Aramis has just suggested that they spend the evening defacing priceless works of art with a hot pink Sharpie. Aramis doesn’t flinch, he just holds his hand out and waits. It takes almost half a minute, but eventually Athos passes the bottle over, wary and unsure.
> 
> “Good, thank you.” Aramis had been afraid they were going to have to resort to spraying Athos with a bottle of water like he did when Porthos’ cat got on the kitchen counter. With roughly the same hissing as a result.

Athos waits and the silence stretches on and on. Finally, Athos crosses his arms over his chest. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

D’Artagnan shrugs. He really has forgotten. It was nerves, really. He made up an excuse to have Athos there and now that he’s here that excuse has fled completely. He doesn’t want to say that, of course, doesn’t want to run the risk that without a reason to stay, Athos will surely leave and d’Artagnan and his nerves will be alone together for the rest of the night. It’s Aramis who saves him.

“Well, while you’re jogging your memory, d’Artagnan, there’s no sense wasting what could be a lovely evening meeting a new friend.” Athos rolls his eyes again, he’s worried he might sprain something vital to his eyesight if this continues. “Athos,” Aramis calls. “Hand me that wine so I can pour some for the rest of us.”

Athos’ look says Aramis has just suggested that they spend the evening defacing priceless works of art with a hot pink Sharpie. Aramis doesn’t flinch, he just holds his hand out and waits. It takes almost half a minute, but eventually Athos passes the bottle over, wary and unsure.

“Good, thank you.” Aramis had been afraid they were going to have to resort to spraying Athos with a bottle of water like he did when Porthos’ cat got on the kitchen counter. With roughly the same hissing as a result. “Glasses?” Aramis asks d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan turns and pulls three glasses from the cupboard behind him and hands them to Aramis. As he’s pouring, Aramis says, “I’m gathering, by the fact that you’re nervously about to undertake something involved, that he’s still talking people out of their easy first wishes?” D’Artagnan shrugs and nods. “Terrible. It ruins the point of being a genie in the first place. If I did that I’d have missed out on some of the truly great wishes I’ve granted.”

Aramis leads them all into the living room where they settle on sofas and chairs, Aramis curled into Porthos’ side, tucked under his arm. “Once, I think it was 1720, I had a patron, a wisher, who proposed a wild idea for catching the eye of his lady love. Imagine,” Aramis says, gesturing expansively with his wine glass, circumnavigating the globe of his creativity, “if I chose the same approach as our dear Athos here, I’d have missed the beauty her face as she watched the clouds spell out his name.”

D’Artagnan whips his head around to face Athos, a startled, indignant noise bursting out. Athos jerks one finger up, pointing it at d’Artagnan. “No,” is all he says.

Aramis has settled into his theme now. He spins them tale after tale of grand wishes he’s granted and the joy he feels in watching them billow out into reality.

He tells them about the deck hand on the Niagra Falls pleasure cruise boat who hand wanted nothing more than to get away from his boring life and his terrible boss. “He wished for gold and jewels, and then a house, and when he was sure he’d have a comfortable life, he walked into the captain’s office and quit. For his next wish, he asked for the falls to go backward the next time the boat was out on the water. I’ve never seen a man so terrified as that captain was. Beautiful,” Aramis’ sigh is wistful.

“Truly,” Athos says, “you’re an artist.”

“Call me a romantic,” Aramis says, and then smiles as Porthos presses a kiss to his head.

“You are certainly that,” Porthos says, smiling into Aramis’ hair.

Aramis beams at him. “I just think that if a young man asks for the earth to move when he is with his lover for the first time, then I should help that come true.”

“Have you done that?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Mm,” Aramis says, swallowing his wine. “It was long ago, but I’ve never forgotten.”

“Neither has Pompeii,” Athos says into his wineglass.

Aramis glares at him. “I’m _not_ that old.”

It’s midnight before they all leave, by the front door, naturally. On his way out, Aramis slips a piece of paper over to d’Artagnan.

“What’s this?”

“It’s my mobile number. You haven’t got my lamp so you can’t call me like you can your genie, and I can always use a conspirator in irritating Athos.” He shrugs on shoulder. “Also, I simply like you; I can never have too many friends.”

D’Artagnan goes to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

The last class is a raging success, at least for the students. They’ve all made enough progress to be confident about finishing their projects, and Constance is thrilled with how her quilt is shaping up. On her way out, d’Artagnan says to her, “I’m off to the coffee shop across the street, would you like to join me?”

Constance beams her usual sunny smile and says, “Thanks, no. I have to be at my sister’s in an hour for dinner.” She waves at him as she walks out the door and d’Artagnan doesn’t miss that she hadn’t said ‘maybe later’ or ‘another time, perhaps’ when she declined.

When d’Artagnan gets to his car, Athos is leaning against it. He’s got sunglasses on and a travel mug in his hands and he looks less irritated than normal.

“How did you know my car?” d’Artagnan asks. Athos rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to make a flashcard that just says ‘genie’ so I can wave it at you when you ask me questions like this. How did it go?”

D’ Artagnan drops his bag and leans against the car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Athos. “It went fine.”

“Fine.”

“Yeah, fine. Everyone seemed happy with their projects and Constance thanked me and when I tried to ask her out she said she couldn’t because she’s having lunch with her sister.”

“But no offers of a raincheck,” Athos says and d’Artagnan can hear the question in his voice.

“No. I just,” d’Artagnan stops to sigh and rub his forehead. “I just wish I knew whether or not she was actually interested in me at all.” He doesn’t catch his own word choice, but Athos does.

“Do you indeed?” D’Artagnan whips his head up, hearing the hint of something there. Thinking back on what he’s said, d’Artagnan realizes that he’s got eight wishes left, and this is a better way to spend one than another potentially ill-fated attempt.

“Yes,” he says. “I do. I wish I knew whether or not she was actually interested in me.”

“Leave it to me. Call for me tomorrow night,” Athos says, stepping away from the car and sketching a wave at d’Artagnan as he walks away across the parking lot. D’Artagnan tosses his bag onto the passenger seat and takes a seat behind the wheel. When he looks up after starting the engine, the parking lot is empty and Athos is nowhere to be seen.

 

 

D’Artagnan spends Sunday pretending he’s not wondering what Athos is doing. He does his laundry and shops for the week’s groceries and doesn’t think about if Athos is going to come back with good news. He calls his mother and sisters and talks to them about their week and doesn’t ask himself where Athos is right now. It’s a great plan if he ignores how it doesn’t work at all.

The sun has officially set, the lasagne has been in the oven for an hour, and the kitchen clock is showing a time that would be appropriate for a dinner reservation; d’Artagnan thinks he’s waited long enough. He rubs the lamp and feels that icy lightning up his arm again.

From the living room, d’Artagnan hears, “Well, you waited longer that I thought you would. Aramis had more faith in you, he said you’d make it until after eight.”

“Coffee or wine?” d’Artagnan calls.

“Wine, please.”

He pours two glasses and goes to join Athos on the sofa.

“I want you to know, d’Artagnan, that I have seen some terrible things in my time. I’ve been witness to catastrophes and atrocities and I considered myself a jaded man. I thought nothing could give me nightmares again. And then I spent yesterday afternoon at a fucking baby shower.” The last words are almost a hiss and it’s all d’Artagnan can do to not laugh so hard he spits his wine out.

D’Artagnan pulls the lasagne out of the oven, putting it on the counter to rest. Athos loses his train of thought for a second as he realizes that for the first time in almost four hundred years of this, a punter has made him dinner before rubbing the lamp. D’Artagnan has consistently been kind, generous, and thoughtful. Which makes everything he’s about to say roughly twelve times worse.

“I’m not sure if I should just tell you to cut to the chase or have you tell me about how you ended up at a baby shower,” d’Artagnan says as he’s pulling plates down from the dish rack. He dishes a serving of the casserole onto each plate and looks up to see that Athos’ face is an expressionless mask. D’Artagnan’s shoulders slump and he slides one plate, together with a fork, across the worktop to Athos. “Alright, start with the bad news, then cheer me up by telling me about the party.”

Athos pokes at his lasagne with a fork. “The short answer is no. The lovely Constance is blissfully single, enjoying her life, and in the mood for neither a serious nor casual relationship. She is every bit as adorable and sweet as you described, I feared for my dental health if I stayed there any longer; surely cavities were in my future.” He forks a bite of food into his mouth and levels a gaze at d’Artagnan.

He's droll and flippant in an effort to soften the blow, and d’Artagnan knows it. Hearing Athos say ‘I’m so sorry’ would have left d’Artagnan to focus on this as a loss. But he’s framed it in terms of how good this is for Constance, a woman d’Artagnan has always liked, even before the ill-fated infatuation. Constance is happy, Athos is bored, all is right and the world will keep turning.

“Right,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m taking tonight to mope, then tomorrow… well, it’ll be tomorrow.” He nods, as though this is a decree. “But I think, if I’m going to avoid this being a miserable pity party, we’re going to need some help.” He takes an enormous bite of lasagne and fishes his phone from his pocket, sending a quick text and then shoveling more food into his mouth.

Athos stares at him, wondering how long it’s been since he had a metabolism like d’Artagnan’s, centuries at least. “Wait, we?”

D’Artagnan’s head jerks up, “You wouldn’t leave me in my misery like this would you? I mean I know I’m just the punter with your lamp but…” Athos stares at him, cocks one eyebrow. D’Artagnan says, “I have a bottle of champagne I bought to celebrate tonight and five bottles of wine left over from my housewarming party.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Athos says and d’Artagnan smiles at him.

“I haven’t entirely given up though, I’m still going to need your help to find the love of my life.”

Athos rolls his eyes. “Really?” he says, sounding thoroughly disgusted at the notion of such a thing.

“Look, I have six wishes—.”

“Seven.”

“Seven wishes left, and at least one of them is going for that.”

Athos is sitting at the counter, absently eating his dinner and trying to figure out why he corrected d’Artagnan. He never corrects the wishers when they want to limit themselves. He always just nods and accepts what they say and hopes they don’t catch on. He’s frustrated and he can’t figure out why.

“If you insist,” Athos says. “Now, far be it from me to insert my own opinion into your wishes,” across the counter d’Artagnan snorts, “but you might be better served by spending some of those wishes other ways and leaving that for last. By that time, I’ll have a better idea of what would be best for you and where to find this paragon of virtue and goodness. The more parameters I can put in place, the more accurate my results.”

D’Artagnan stares at him. “Isn’t that how Amazon suggestions work?” Athos has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep the imperious look on his face. Laughing, d’Artagnan says, “Tell me about the baby shower.” Athos bristles again but after another swallow of wine he lets loose.

“I needed to talk to Constance in an environment where she’d be likely to interact with strangers without second guessing, and I needed a time and place where I would have to do the minimum amount of work to go unnoticed. It’s not hard, I just can’t be bothered most of the time. This party fit the bill for both.”

D’Artagnan nods and watches as Athos settles into his story and his face becomes more animated than d’Artagnan has ever seen. He’s smiling from time to time and gesturing with his fork and he looks so… animated. Even in the midst of his disappointment, d’Artagnan finds himself laughing when Athos talks about pretending to have driven someone to the party and stayed to pilfer food from the hors d’oeuvres table. Whenever someone had asked him who he’d come with, Athos had given a different, increasingly absurd, name.

“I explained to her that I had arrived with Mistress Minerva, her given name is Margaret but she’s always gone by Mistress, and then I helped myself to another one of those bizarre tiny waffle things. It was looking dire, d’Artagnan. I was on the brink of leaving when finally I turned to see Constance going for one of the crab puffs. Naturally I warned her off, they’d gone with _frozen_.” D’Artagnan affects a scandalized face and Athos glares at him.

“You’re mocking me, but once you’ve tasted the difference you’ll never settle again, you fucking heathen. Now, _as I was saying_ , Constance looked delightful in a charming sundress which I believe to have been a bit optimistic for the weather but which set her hair off nicely. We had our discussion about her current couplehood status and plans for the future of that status, and once we’d settled it, she proceeded to describe to me the kinds of games that were in store for the partygoers after everyone had indulged in food and some kind of nauseating pink champagne concoction. Somewhere Charles Heidsieck’s corpse is digging for the surface so it can beat those merchants to death with their own bottles.”

Athos stops for a drink and to reach across the counter and steal a sizable forkful of d’Artagnan’s lasagne. “Are you aware, d’Artagnan, of the horrors of these parties? The undignified and frankly disgusting things these women get up to? And I’m talking over and above forcing the poor mother-to-be to sit in front of a room full of barely familiar relatives and pretend to be overjoyed with their atrocious taste in childrens’ clothing?”

He gestures at d’Artagnan with his fork, conveying that his next words are going to be of some import. "There are no less than three games involving guessing what’s inside a whimsically soiled nappy. It put me entirely off the entire dessert table. I fled almost immediately after that description, needless to say. Now, before it puts me off this lasagne as well, let’s move on to something more palatable. What will your other wishes be, do you think?”

  
After another ten minutes of Athos quietly eating (it’s phenomenal lasagne, he doesn’t even bat an eye when d’Artagnan scoops another helping onto his plate) and d’Artagnan cheerfully casting wish ideas around like confetti, there’s a knock at the door. D’Artagnan answers it and there are boisterous, slightly familiar voices from the entryway. Athos is expecting to see d’Artagnan coming back into the kitchen, he’s surprised to look up and find it’s Aramis and Porthos instead.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says, whipping his head around to face d’Artagnan. “How did you find them?”

“I texted Aramis, you were sitting right here when I did it.”

“Right,” Aramis says. “I gather we’re here to wail into our wine over d’Artagnan’s chances with the fiery temptress?”

D’Artagnan nods. “And she’s really happy, so I’m happy for her.” He means it, he really does, but his tone is still more than a little wistful.

Aramis ruffles his hair. “Hang in there, floppy-haired little shit, plenty of stars in the sky.”

D’Artagnan’s brow furrows. “Isn’t it meant to be ‘fish in the sea?’”

Aramis winks and claps him on the shoulder. “Only if you’re thinking small, my dear d’Artagnan. Dream large!”

What follows is four hours of Aramis brainstorming wishes for d’Artagnan, Athos refusing to do most of them, d’Artagnan shooting down the rest, and Porthos eating the rest of the lasagne.

“I’m just pointing out,” Aramis says, gesturing entirely too grandly for the amount of wine he’s had to drink, “that it’s time we had werewolves again, and d’Artagnan has the eyes for it.”

Athos sits forward, his face having become dangerously expressive as the evening wore on. “First, there have never been werewolves, and second, _absolutely not_.”

Aramis grins. “But you do agree he has the eyes for it.” Athos glares at him and Porthos laughs and d’Artagnan wonders what he’s missing.

At the end of the evening, after Aramis and Porthos have left to go home, kissing and groping their way down the hall to the lift, d’Artagnan flops down onto the couch next to Athos. He lets his head drop onto Athos’ shoulder but picks it up again when Athos goes stiff enough that even d’Artagnan’s wine-fuzzy brain picks up on it.

“Aramis is fun,” d’Artagnan says.

“Mm,” Athos says, humming into his wineglass.

“I bet he’s a really good genie.”

“He is, in fact,” Athos says, and he sounds almost fond.

“I’m glad you’re mine.”

Athos doesn’t move a muscle.

“My genie, I mean,” d’Artagnan says. “He’s very big and grand, but I think you’re a better fit for me. I’m going to bed.” He stands and absently pats Athos on the head before shuffling off into the bedroom.

Athos sits on the sofa for a long time before he leaves, vanishing silently straight from the living room.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t really think about this much before I made my first wish,” d’Artagnan says. “I don’t even know what the rules are.”
> 
> It’s a Sunday, the first even vaguely warm day of spring and Aramis and d’Artagnan have bullied Athos into sitting at one of the sidewalk tables at Cloisters. Aramis is rocked back on the back two legs of his chair with his face to the sun, soaking it up and trying to pretend he’s not a little chilly.
> 
> Athos has his hands wrapped around his coffee cup and is glaring at them from over his scarf. “Well, the first rule is that we do this where there is decent heating.”

“I didn’t really think about this much before I made my first wish,” d’Artagnan says. “I don’t even know what the rules are.”

It’s a Sunday, the first even vaguely warm day of spring and Aramis and d’Artagnan have bullied Athos into sitting at one of the sidewalk tables at Cloisters. Aramis is rocked back on the back two legs of his chair with his face to the sun, soaking it up and trying to pretend he’s not a little chilly.

Athos has his hands wrapped around his coffee cup and is glaring at them from over his scarf. “Well, the first rule is that we do this where there is decent heating.”

Aramis smiles and puts one hand up, his thumb curled in to leave four fingers up. He doesn’t even turn to look at d’Artagnan as he ticks off the rules. “One, we can’t start a life or end a life. Two, we can’t start a love or end a love. Three, no wishing for more wishes. Four, we can’t just make money appear in your account.” He stops to look at d’Artagnan over his sunglasses. “There are ways around that one, of course.”

“You’ve figured out a cheat for your own rules?” d’Artagnan asks.

“In this economy? Needs must, my dear boy.” He waves his hand casually. “Besides, it’s not so much as a cheat as it is that there aren’t any rules around wishing for gems or precious metals,” Aramis says.

“Yes,” Athos says. “Though, before you two go swimming in your pool full of gold coins like some terrible cartoon, allow me to once again be the pragmatist by pointing out how many of the current economic safeguards against fraud and money laundering you’d have to overcome in order to take advantage of that little loophole with any effectiveness.”

Aramis snorts and takes a drink of his cappuccino. “There are some secondary safeguards, but those are mostly for us.”

D’Artagnan turns a curious look on Athos.

“When you rub the lamp, you feel the coldness?” D’Artagnan nods. “You’d feel that if you touched me as well. It’s to keep us from forming… attachments.”

Frowning into his cup, d’Artagnan says to Aramis, “Do you and Porthos…?” He trails off and looks up, hoping Aramis will step in and help him but is met with only an expectant smile. It’s Athos who rescues him from any stammering comments about electric blankets or heating pads.

“No, Aramis managed to find a way around that one as well.”

The smile Aramis gives d’Artaganan over the rim of his cup is positively lewd. “Whoever put the rules in place assumed that no one with wishes at his disposal would spend one just to make sure they could touch their genie. They clearly had not considered my powers of persuasion.”

“And it’s stayed like that even after your lamp moved on?”

“Listen to me, d’Artagnan.” Aramis lets his chair rest on all four legs and props his elbows on the table, looking d’Artagnan in the eyes. “The most important rule of wishes, even over and above what you can and can’t wish for, is this - it’s all about the wording. In that case, I simply suggested that she phrase it such that I would be able to touch others with no discomfort for either of us, rather than for her to be able to touch her genie. It was all the same to her, of course, but for me it made a world of difference. For me, it became possible to have lovers, to have love.” He smiles, soft and secret, into his cup. “To have Porthos.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t see Athos’ cheeks pink, but if he did Athos would only point out that despite their fondest hopes, it’s not _actually_ warm enough to be sitting outside.

“So, if I wanted my mother to have a house?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Think about the pitfalls, but also remember that your genie is Athos. He’s unlikely to fuck you over in the details if you wish for something that altruistic.”

“Stop making me sound like a petulant used car salesman,” Athos says.

D’Artagnan rolls his coffee cup in his hands. “I would like for my mother to honestly come by and own a safe, well-maintained, comfortable house that she can live in for the rest of her life.”

Athos arches an eyebrow. “Is that a wish?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan nods. “Oh! And not haunted. I wish for that.”

Athos holds d’Artagnan’s gaze for a beat longer than is strictly necessary before the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth and he says, “That’s a very good wish.” D’Artagnan flushes, oddly proud of himself as much for the praise from Athos as for having done something for his mom.

“Will she know it came from me?” he asks.

“Do you want her to?” Aramis asks. D’Artagnan shakes his head.

“Then she won’t,” Athos says. D’Artagnan waits for that smile again, but it never comes. Whatever is in Athos’ eyes is shuttered and unreadable.

“What next?” Aramis asks.

D’Artagnan thinks about it for a long moment. “Lunch?”

Aramis laughs. “Good. Yes. It doesn’t do to rush, not with Athos as your genie. If you tried more than one wish in a day, he’d no doubt try to talk you out of the second one anyway.”

“What do you think, Athos?” d’Artagnan asks.

Athos swirls the last of his coffee, looking deep into his cup. “Will there be indoor seating?” D’Artagnan shoves his fists in his coat pockets and tries not to grin.

 

  
The next week is rough, d’Artagnan spends four days in meetings with the marketing staff discussing the sales pipeline and realizing he wants exactly nothing to do with any of those projects. He less and less wants anything to do with this job at all. Thursday night he spends curled up on the couch with a book, losing himself in fictional worlds. Friday night he makes dinner suitable for company and he rubs the lamp.

Athos walks in from the hall, a mug in one hand and an open book in the other. He looks up and sees d’Artagnan and there’s that flash of a smile again. “Have you finally decided to take Aramis’ suggestion and get yourself a pool full of gold?”

D’Artagnan refuses to rise to the bait. “In from the hall this time? I’m waiting for the day when I hear a flush and you walk out from the toilet.”

Athos rears his head back with a look that is both scandalized and horrified. D’Artagnan can only laugh and add the quartered potatoes to the bottom of the roasting pan, tossing them in the drippings from the chicken. He slides a pile of vegetables and a cutting board and knife across the counter to Athos. “Can you cut these for me?” The look on Athos’ face doesn’t change in the slightest, he just turns the scandalized and horrified look down to the vegetable and then back up to d’Artagnan. Sighing, d’Artagnan pulls them back across the counter, handing over a corkscrew instead. “Fine, then pick the bottle you find least objectionable and open it.

When the wine is open, d’Artagnan looks up from his chopping to find Athos reading again. He twists his head to see what it is and Athos holds the book up. It’s a volume of short stories by an author d’Artagnan knows, but he’s never read any of these. “Read to me?” he asks. Athos looks startled but with one side of his mouth quirks up in a smile, and he nods and starts to read.

They make it through one story and into a second before the thermometer alarm says the chicken is done. When it’s been carved and the vegetables portioned out between two plates, they sit across from each other at d’Artagnan’s tiny table. He almost feels the urge to toast, but he isn’t sure to what. It’s quiet for a few minutes while they eat and then d’Artagnan looks across the table to Athos.

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes. Though usually the food isn’t this good.”

“No,” d’Artagnan says. “I mean other than granting wishes. Do you… I don’t know, teach literature or write really mean restaurant reviews or something?”

Athos smiles, “What a shockingly wide range of talents you imagine I possess.” He toys with his fork for a second before answering. “No. I had some money before I got tethered to the lamp; I invested it well and now I’m able to live off the interest. Every few decades I have to use the only bit of magic I’m allowed to use on myself to create a new identity and move the money along. Other than that, my time is my own.”

D’Artagnan has been listening intently, a faint smile on his face. “So you don’t need to work. What do you do all day?”

“Apparently I answer pointless questions for hours on end,” Athos says. D’Artagnan just looks at him. “I read a great deal. I learn new things, I have lunch with Aramis, I go to the theater and the park. I wait to feel the lamp. It’s been in fairly heavy use for the last century or so, and that’s kept me busy. It might not have been the life I’d have asked for if I’d truly had a choice, but I’ve come to… to like it.”

“Really?”

“D’Artagnan, you’ve always lived in it so you aren’t in a position to understand how frankly extraordinary so much of your world is. I like having good coffee available on every street corner. It’s very heaven to know for a certainty that my mattress doesn’t have bugs in it and in the winter there is central heating. Yes, d’Artagnan, after centuries when the world could be terrifically uncomfortable, I like it now.”

Nodding and smiling, d’Artagnan concedes the point.

“I have bookstores that I love, places I can sit for hours deciding what to buy that day. They smell of paper and ink and possibilities, d’Artagnan and that’s not a bad way to spend a day. Also, this current era involves much less direct eye-contact than many other times. I quite enjoy being able to walk down the street without having to deal with anyone.” Athos gives a delicate shudder.

D’Artagnan uses his fork to push what’s left of his potatoes from one side of the plate to the other. He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Why do you ask?” Athos says.

“I like working. I like having something to do with my day and a sense of productivity. I just wish it were something that made me happy. I’m not saying I want to spend my day sitting in a bookstore, but it would be nice to do something I loved.”

“Are you asking to be doing something glamorous and highly-paid?” Athos asks.

D’Artagnan shakes his head, finishing his wine before he speaks. “No, I don’t want anything I haven’t earned, or at least that I won’t earn. And I don’t want something glamorous, just something I actually love more days than not.”

His head tilts to one side and Athos folds his arms. “Are you venting, or are you wishing?”

Swallowing, d’Artagnan says, “I wish I had my dream job.”

“That’s quite a bit of leeway,” Athos says.

D’Artagnan shrugs. “I trust you.”

Athos takes their glasses back over to the kitchen to refill them and d’Artagnan takes the opportunity to clear the dishes from the table. While he’s doing the washing up, d’Artagnan answers questions. What does he love most about his job? What does he like the least? What energizes him? What wears him down? What does he love to do when he’s not working?

More than an hour later, d’Artagnan’s kitchen is clean, the wine is finished, and he’s stifling yawns more often than he’s speaking. Athos puts his glass in the sink. “Meet me at Cloisters on Sunday around ten. I think I have just the thing.”

D’Artagnan nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

Athos pauses on the way out of the room and turns, smiling. “Goodnight, d’Artagnan.” He walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. There’s the sound of the toilet flushing and the door swings open again. The bathroom is empty.

D’Artagnan is still laughing as he climbs into bed.

 

  
Cloisters on Sunday morning is as busy as d’Artagnan is expecting it to be. Crowds of people standing around are clearly visible through the front window. He’s worried about being able to get a table and wonders if it’s worth wasting a wish on, when he sees Athos approaching from the opposite direction.

“Good morning. Get your coffee to go,” he says.

When d’Artagnan comes back out, coffee in hand, Porthos and Aramis have joined Athos on the sidewalk. He’s thrilled to see them; there have been some texts back and forth with Aramis, but he finds that he didn’t realize how much he missed their company until they’re here with him again.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis calls out. “What a wonderful surprise running into you here, I didn’t realize you and Athos were meeting up this morning.”

“That’s a lie,” Athos says and Aramis shoots him a glare. “I made the monumental mistake of telling Aramis what I was doing today and they refused to be left out.”

“I’m all for company,” d’Artagnan says. “Having friends along can only make it more enjoyable.”

Spoken mostly into his coffee cup, Athos says, “And then there’s having Aramis along.”

Aramis claps Athos on the shoulder. “Let’s go then, shall we?” His grin is broad and guileless, and Athos might believe it except for the fact that his gesture of affection sent Athos' coffee slopping over the brim of his cup and across his right shoe.

“You are an absolute menace,” Athos says.

Where they’re going isn’t far, d’Artagnan barely has time to greet Porthos and hear about how he and Aramis have been. Athos stops in front of a small storefront on a busy street with a wide sidewalk. Through the window, d’Artagnan can see painter’s ladders and drop cloths. He turns to Athos and his confusion is plain on his face.

Athos takes a drink of his coffee and looks up at the space above the window where clearly a sign has been removed.

“Not long ago, this was a very good bookstore. There was a small electrical fire, and while the insurance paid to have the wiring replaced and repaired, the owner enjoyed the time while the store was closed so much that he’s decided to retire.”

The confusion is starting to fall from d’Artagnan’s face and he can sense Aramis and Porthos staring at him, waiting for his reaction. He feels like it’s Christmas morning and the entire family is watching him open his gifts. Which, he supposes, is what’s happening. In a way.

“I think with the small-business management knowledge and pre-stocking I can do for you, this would be a good fit,” Athos finishes.

D’Artagnan’s eyes are enormous. “So after all that, I really would get to spend my day sitting in a bookstore.”

Athos’ face is serious. “It’s not easy, not at all. The hours are long and the pay is unreliable but it can be incredibly rewarding. And if I’m wrong you can sell it and go backpack through Asia or whatever it is people do these days.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes are laughing when he meets Athos’ gaze and says, “And perhaps, on a good day I might get to see one of my regular customers? One who comes in with coffee in hand and reads for hours before buying a pile of books?”

Athos’ face shutters closed. Any trace of the man behind the lamp is gone. His voice is serious and impersonal when he says, “It’s a wish, d’Artagnan. Not a gift.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Aramis, but d’Artagnan seems to have missed the moment entirely. He’s turned to look in the window again, his nose nearly pressed up against the glass. Looking back at Athos he says, “How? How can you…?”

“Come now,” Aramis says, slinging an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Don’t cheapen the magic with explanations. Let a genie have his secrets.”

Athos has the keys in his pocket, and he lets them all in to look around. Three of them spend a pleasant hour poking into the corners and cabinets and planning what will go where. Athos spends that time leaning against the wall just inside the door. His arms are crossed over his chest and he never takes his eyes from an unremarkable spot on the back wall. He’s listening to his own brain go spinning slightly out of control and trying to wrest it back by force of will alone.

Just when he thinks he might be getting a handle on it, he hears Aramis’ voice as the other three come out of the back room. “You’ll have plenty to do; for now you should get out of here and go enjoy your Sunday afternoon. Porthos and I have something we need to do and Athos has to go practice his glare for at least an hour or it gets all soft around the edges.” He willfully ignores the furious look Athos shoots him.

Still floating on the notion of a job that he loves and will get to keep loving, d’Artagnan waves at them, says a sincere and earnest ’thank you’ to Athos, and says he’ll see them all soon. The door isn’t finished clicking closed before Aramis looks at Athos and says, “We need to _talk_. Dinner. Tonight. Our place.” Athos looks at Aramis as though he has suggested the menu will include hot coals. Aramis cocks one eyebrow. “If you try to avoid it I’ll have d’Artagnan summon you and we’ll all end up in his apartment having this conversation.”

Athos’ eyes fly wide for a fraction of a second before his mask is back in place. “Dinner sounds lovely, I’ll see you then.” He’s gone almost before he’s through the door to the office.

 

  
Aramis and Porthos share a disgustingly adorable townhouse in a neighborhood that estate agents would call a “sought-after neighborhood” because they don’t want to say “ludicrously expensive.” It’s full of pictures of the two of them, old books, random art that absolutely _must_ be a reproduction (because no one would hang an original of that on his dining room wall, right?) and Porthos’ spoiled cat. Athos hates how much he loves it here.

He’s following Porthos up the stairs into the main sitting area, unwinding his scarf and making small talk about renovations they’re planning. Athos gives exactly no shits about replacing the kitchen faucet, but he likes Porthos so he’s making an effort.

Aramis already has dinner on the table, it’s lamb and the spices are hanging thick in the air. “Don’t worry, Porthos cooked,” Aramis says and Athos doesn’t bother hiding his relief. If Porthos cooked, he should be able to eat it without weeping. Aramis seems to think that all curries should be cooked as if they were a dare. “Sit,” Aramis says. “We should talk about your boy.”

Athos is already in his chair and it’s all he can do not to shove the table into Aramis’ legs. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Athos, please.” Aramis slides into his chair and snaps his napkin out across his lap. "I saw the look on your face when you gave him his wish, and I saw the look on your face when you reminded him that's all it was." Porthos sits at the head of the table and seems to see this as a delightful spectator sport. He passes the rice to Athos with a smile.

“Do you know,” Aramis asks, “how I know that you care about him?”

“Oh yes, Exalted of the Lamp, do tell me how you can see into my thoughts.”

Aramis smiles, but it’s Porthos who speaks. “It’s how hard you’re trying to _not_ care. You’ll let Aramis call him your boy and pretend it doesn’t bother you. You’ll gripe and moan about getting called over there for no reason but when you realize it’s not for a wish you still don’t leave.”

Leaning back in his chair, Aramis says, “You found him his dream job, just like he wished. Then, when it looked like he might want you to stop in after his wishes were over, you shut down like someone," he flicks his fingers, "switched off the lights. You had to though, didn't you? Had to make sure he didn't get any ideas. Had to make sure you kept it professional. It's too late for professional, Athos.”

Athos’ face is a study in patience, but there are cracks around the edges. “You’ll excuse me if I refuse to count as an ‘expert opinion’ a man who has had affairs with at least three of his owners, and those are only the ones I can remember. I mean really, Aramis. The Queen of France?” He’s flailing, scrabbling at the edges of the cliff until his fingers are raw, and Aramis can tell.

“Snap if you wish, Athos, but don’t think you’re fooling either of us. You’re not upset with me, you’re upset because he’s interrupting your life. You have enough money that you can spend your days fucking off in bookstores and drinking coffee and being arch at people. But then along comes d’Artagnan, and he’s not just like the other punters is he? Oh no, because this floppy-haired little shit is making you feel things. Making you _want_ things.”

Aramis leans forward and takes his wine glass in his hand, feeling it cool against his fingers. “Athos, I thought about it. You haven’t really _wanted_ anything since 1853. And even then it was just a really nice pair of boots.”

“That hardly counts,” Athos says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I barely wanted them for a day before I bought them.”

“Is it really so terrible?” Porthos asks. Aramis slides one of his hands across the table to twine his fingers together with Porthos’.

“I won’t push you anymore tonight, I promise. Just— Just ask yourself something for me? Except for the fact that it involves emotion, nothing about this thing with d’Artagnan is like the last time. If you know that to be true, then why are you still trying so hard to keep it from happening?” He smiles and squeezes Porthos’ hand once before letting go. “Enough of that now, it’s time for me to mock you both for your weak palates.”

Athos tries to smile back, he knows he’s not fooling anyone but Aramis appreciates the effort. So much of what Aramis has said is true. For hundreds of years, Athos has had a life that works, that makes him content, and which he would have been able to carry on indefinitely. He’s not content anymore, he’s angry. Angry at the disruption and angry that this floppy-haired little shit is so charming. Angry that d’Artagnan’s grin gets under his skin and his company is so fucking enjoyable. He’s angry because with d’Artagnan in his world, Athos _likes_ things again. He looks forward to things again and that means he can be disappointed. Again.

He does not have _time_ for this.

Except, of course, he has nothing but time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis does mention that given the timeframe in which Athos said the store would be ready, d’Artagnan has turned in his notice with his employer. It could be ready tomorrow, there are genies involved after all, but d’Artagnan is exactly the kind of person who will give his employer plenty of notice, even if his dream job is waiting for him thanks to actual fucking magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got a final chapter count, unless the next bit gets away from me terribly. We might be in for a rating change as well, I'm still up in the air as to whether or not this needs smut. Either way, we're almost there. Thank you for sticking with me on this ridiculous ride, it's been outrageous fun.

  
Nearly a week goes by before Athos feels the lamp tug at him. He’s had another dinner with Aramis and Porthos in the meantime, but their conversation was blissfully absent any mentions of d’Artagnan past a few “Any more wishes?” questions.

Aramis does mention that given the timeframe in which Athos said the store would be ready, d’Artagnan has turned in his notice with his employer. It could be ready tomorrow, there are genies involved after all, but d’Artagnan is exactly the kind of person who will give his employer plenty of notice, even if his dream job is waiting for him thanks to actual fucking magic.

When the tug comes, Athos finds himself reaching for the irritation, wanting to throw on a scowl, but he realizes he’s going to have to fake it. Or, rather, he’ll have to take his irritation at himself, at how much he’s looking forward to spending the evening with d’Artagnan, and make it seem like his usual grumpiness. Athos thinks about Aramis staring at him and saying, “Let’s talk about your boy,” and a frown comes easily. He grabs his coffee from the counter and heads out.

He comes in through the front door, flipping the deadbolt behind him and looking up to find a startled d’Artagnan standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“I’m absolutely certain I locked that when I got home,” d’Artagnan says.

“Ah, wait, I have something for this,” Athos says. He reaches into the inside pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a piece of thick, cream-colored paper about the size of his hand. Printed on one side, in a 96 point Garamond is the word “Genie.”

He flashes it at d’Artagnan and tries not to be charmed when d’Artagnan bursts out laughing.

It’s not like d’Artagnan to jump right into what he wants, so Athos waits. He waits while d’Artagnan bustles around getting dinner ready. He waits while d’Artagnan opens them each a beer and talks to Athos about interviewing managers for the bookshop. He waits when d’Artagnan asks him to take the pizza out of the oven. Eventually, he finds he’s waiting less and enjoying himself more and dammit, that is what got him into this mess in the first place.

“D’Artagnan, don’t think for a moment that I’m complaining about being offered a home-cooked meal, but why am I here tonight?” At d’Artagnan’s confused look he continues, “That’s how it works, you rub the lamp when you want something. I’m your genie, not your…”

Flashing a grin, d’Artagnan says, “Oh come on, you are a little. I call you when I need help, we hang out with mutual friends, you’re over here for dinner almost weekly. You are at least a _little_.” Athos can feel the blood draining out of his face and wonders how it’s possible that even with no blood in them his cheeks feel so hot. D’Artagnan fishes another beer from the refrigerator and smiles shyly before saying, “Besides, I like to think you’re both. My genie _and_ my friend.”

It takes less than a heartbeat for Athos to compose his face. “I hope you don’t show this same appalling lack of taste when choosing your non-genie friends. Now, why am I here?”

D’Artagnan worries at his bottom lip. “I haven’t figured it out yet?” Athos glares at him. “Really though, in the past being around you helped me see what I wanted. My brain would be spinning and then I’d spend time with you and suddenly I would know just what would make me happiest.”

He’s rummaging in a drawer for the pizza cutter so d’Artagnan doesn’t see Athos’ face crumple. By the time he’s found it, Athos’ face is the same blank mask. “I thought maybe that would work again tonight. I could have you over, we could have dinner, and after some time with you the next wish would just come to me. It hasn’t happened yet, but I promise the pizza will make up for your trouble.” D’Artagnan finishes with a crooked grin.

When Athos speaks next, he tries to make his voice kind. “D’Artagnan, the wishes don’t have expiration dates. As long as no one else gets my lamp, you can take your life to figure them out. You don’t have to summon me in to try and come up with a new wish.”

“Unless I want to,” he grins, trying to make it cheeky and casual.

“If you rub the lamp, I have to come.” Athos knows that was cruel, he knows it even before he sees the flinch on d’Artagnan’s face. Even faced with that, Athos can’t bring himself to apologize or take it back. Neither of them needs to get any more comfortable in the other’s company.

D’Artagnan’s smile is sheepish when he says, “Well, as long as you’re here tonight you might as well stay for dinner. You can tell me if you have any advice on my hunt for a good manager.” Athos hates himself exactly enough to say yes.

They sit at the table and talk for hours. The first hour of it is d’Artagnan talking about his last couple of weeks at work and how he’s wrapping everything up. The second hour is him bemoaning the search for someone to do the actual day-to-day running of the shop so that d’Artagnan can spend time with customers. He’s had plenty of candidates apply, he’s had interviews over coffee each evening, but all the well-qualified applicants are too expensive and everyone else just gives him nightmares about all the possible ways they could ruin the store.

Athos frowns a little. “So, what you need is someone determined, reliable, and who isn’t doing it for the money.”

D’Artagnan beams. “Yes! That’s exactly what I need.”

“Ordinarily you would be spectacularly fucked, but I might be able to help you. There’s someone I— I know, and she might be just the perfect fit. She has her own money, she loves books, and she likes looking out for people who need help.”

There’s a furrow between d’Artagnan’s brows. “Is— Would this be a wish?”

Athos rolls his eyes and finishes his beer. “Good lord, no. She’d have my head if I forced you to use a wish on this. Also, she was bitching just last week about needing something to do so there’s no need to spend a wish trying to get her.” He rolls the bottle on the edge of its base, making circles with it and deliberately _not_ looking at d’Artagnan.

In the silence that follows it’s clear that d’Artagnan is searching for words. “That— Athos that’s incredible.” He reaches across the table to squeeze Athos’ hand where it’s still wrapped around the beer bottle. “Thank you so much.” He pauses for a second and his voice is just a little quieter when he asks, “Who is she?”

Athos huffs, a noise which might be a laugh in anyone else. “She’s you. Not truly, of course, but you do have things in common. She was one of my wishers. Two or three back. She didn’t actually need anything, it was the strangest wish-granting experience. Instead of asking for things for herself she just wanted things for other people. Once her wishes had all been granted we. Well, we stayed in touch.”

D’Artagnan smiles, “She wouldn’t let you drop out of touch, would she?”

One side of Athos’ mouth quirks up. “No matter how I tried.”

“She sounds perfect.”

Athos nods. “I’ll write her contact information down and let her know to expect you. Just be yourself, you two will get on famously. God help the rest of us.”

D’Artagnan takes the plates into the kitchen; when he comes back carrying two fresh beers, Athos can see how much lighter his step is without the weight of the earlier frustration on him. “Tell me,” d’Artagnan says, sliding back into his chair, “if that was your strangest wish-granting experience, what was Aramis’ do you think?”

There are enough stories about Aramis’ wish-granting falling on its face to keep the conversation going for a good deal longer. By the time an hour has passed, d’Artagnan’s face hurts from laughing and Athos seems like he’s actually enjoying himself.

“I’ve just had a terrible thought,” d’Artagnan says. “He’ll be at the shop opening and so will my mother. They’re going to get on so well.” He groans and buries his face in his hands.

“If I weren’t so excited to have her there,” he says, “I’d make her stay home.” He sighs. “She’s so great, Athos. She’s this tiny little thing,” he says, “but she’s not afraid of anything except maybe certain bugs. Since she’d lost my dad, a lot of people expected her to be over-protective of me, to never let me out of her sight. It wasn’t like that though, she’d just tell me to be careful and bandage my scrapes when I got home.”

Athos lets the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice wash over him and just enjoys the moment. When he’s talking about his family, d’Artagnan is almost still as if this grounds him. “She made sure I knew about my father, showed me pictures and took me to visit his relatives. Some nights we’d just curl up on the couch together and she’d go through albums and videos and tell me stories. I know how bad she felt that I didn’t have anything of his, so she tried to give me everything she had of him in her heart.”

“Nothing?” Athos asks.

D’Artagnan shakes his head. “In his will he left me his watch. It had been his father’s and he wanted to make it a tradition, but we could never find it. Mama tore the house apart looking for it after the…” His voice trails off.

“After the…?” Athos prompts him.

“Oh, Athos, it worked again!” D’Artagnan is positively gleeful. “You’re here and suddenly I know exactly what I want.”

Athos winces but manages to pass it off as curiosity by cocking an eyebrow.

“I wish,” d’Artagnan says, “that I could have my father’s watch like he wanted.”

Athos can’t help but smile. It’s softer than he might have wanted to show, more fond. “That,” he says, “is a very good wish. Give me a few days, and it will be yours.”

D’Artagnan is beaming again. “It would make the opening so much better if I could feel like they were both there with me.” His face freezes. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Athos swallows hard, his throat feels tight and he wants to say no. He wants to say that he can send the key to d’Artagnan and go about his life until the next time the lamp calls. Until the next time d’Artagnan runs his thumb over the surface.

“Of course I will.”

Catching sight of the clock, d’Artagnan grimaces. “I’m for bed, I’m afraid. I have a transition meeting in the morning.” Standing, he rests his hand on Athos’ shoulder. “See you at the opening, then,” he says and gives a gentle squeeze. If he feels Athos go stiff under his hand, he doesn’t show any sign, doesn’t let up on his grip.

Athos stands and walks to the door. “Good night, d’Artagnan,” he says and leaves without any pomp or fanfare. D’Artagnan closes the door behind him, flipping the deadbolt closed.

 

 

  
The day the bookstore opens it’s drizzling and cold, but d’Artagnan feels nothing but warmth. Aramis and Porthos showed up early, taking seats in the overstuffed armchairs that flank the gas fireplace, and settling in for what appears to be the long haul. The new manager is bustling around greeting people and making sure everything is running smoothly. Ninon is, as Athos had predicted, the perfect person for the job. She’s been working for him for a week and d’Artagnan isn’t sure how he ever lived without her.

As glad as he is to see so many people, all of them excited about the store, d’Artagnan can’t help how he keeps glancing out the front window, checking for the two people he’s most looking forward to seeing. Athos arrives first. He’s wearing the same scarf and peacoat that d’Artagnan remembers from their first meeting and his face looks nearly as grumpy.

D’Artagnan pushes a cup of tea into his hands and points him at a soft chair next to a table piled with books. “Sit there until you warm up and your face thaws out enough to lose that expression, you’ll scare off all my business.” Athos glares at him, but d’Artagnan only smiles and gives him a light shove between the shoulder blades.

Athos is still sitting in that chair when he hears the bell on the front door ring and d’Artagnan’s excited shout. Looking up, Athos can see d’Artagnan wrapping his arms around a tiny woman with salt-and-pepper hair. From the way she is holding him as though she expects him to be much, much smaller, she can only be d’Artagnan’s mother. Athos drops his eyes to his book again and tries to get lost in it, tries to not care about their conversation.

“Sweetheart,” his mother says. “Look at all of this, it’s incredible! Oh, I’m so excited for you.”

D’Artagnan still has both of her hands in his as he bends his head to press a firm kiss to her hair. “I love you, Mama. I’m so glad you’re here. Come with me, I want to show you everything.”

She smiles up at him, beaming under his affection. “And I want to see it all, but one moment first, I have something for you.” Dipping one hand in her purse she brings out a dark blue velvet box. “I spent most of your life trying to find this, and then when I was packing up to move into the new house I found it sitting in the desk drawer, like it had been there all along. I suppose it was just waiting for the right moment.”

D’Artagnan cracks the box open and Athos doesn’t have to be looking to know what’s in there. “Oh, Mama,” he says.

“My wonderful boy,” she says, one hand cupping his cheek. Her thumb is brushing over his cheekbone and Athos knows that when she looks at d’Artagnan she isn’t seeing the man standing in front of her; she’s seeing the little boy he used to be, with his scraped knees dirty face. “Your father would be so proud of the man you’ve become. The only person prouder would be me.”

D’Artangnan puts his hand over hers where it’s still holding his face. He closes his eyes and smiles, leaning his cheek into her hold. “Thank you. For this, for coming here today, for everything you’ve given me. Thank you.” He turns his face and kisses her palm.

“Come on,” she says, patting his face. “Show me everything.”

“Yes. Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. “I can do that.” He looks down again at the box in his hand, runs his finger over the face of his father’s watch. Looking up, his eyes find Athos’ across the room. Athos raises his eyebrows, a hint of a smile dancing at the corners of his eyes. D’Artagnan beams at him and mouths, ‘Thank you.’

His mother gets the royal treatment, naturally. D’Artagnan shows her the various sections, the choices he’s most proud of, he even spends some time talking about the stock management system and the software Ninon had insisted on to keep special orders straight. His mother turns to Ninon, “This was a good idea you had.”

Ninon smiles and Athos is surprised to find she almost looks shy. “I like to think that if you’re going to do something, you should do it right.”

“Just so,” d’Artagnan’s mother says.

D’Artagnan grins at them both. “Mama, I’m so sorry; I haven’t introduced you. This is Ninon, she’s the manager I was telling you about, my life saver. Ninon, this is my mother, Lisette.”

Lisette gives Ninon a quick, firm hug and says, “Thank you so much for coming in; he would be lost without you.”

“Come on, Mama. Let’s get you away from here before you get any cozier with Ninon and the two of you determine I can’t be trusted to tie my own shoes.” D’Artagnan laughs and leads his mother away from the counter. When he introduces Lisette to Aramis and Porthos, it becomes clear to Athos that there will be introductions for everyone. He has to decide now whether to leave or to become even more enmeshed in d’Artagnan’s life.

He waits just a second too long, and if Athos is honest with himself that’s not an accident. He’s curious what kind of woman raises a man with d’Artagnan’s optimism and generosity. He wants to know how she kept him from losing his kindness and curiosity. When d’Artagnan steers her in his direction, Athos stands up from his chair.

“Athos, my mother, Lisette. Mama, this is Athos. He’s my. Friend.” The pause is there, but it’s barely a blink. Athos shudders to think of all the ways a mother could misinterpret that pause.

“Oh!” she says. “You’re Athos. Charles has told me such lovely stories about his new friend. He thinks very highly of you.”

Athos can actually feel his face grow more and more still. There are klaxons going off in his head like his subconscious is a submarine signaling a dive. The only thing that spurs him to move is d’Artagnan hissing, “Mama!” with a horrified grimace on his face.

Softening his face, letting a trace of his embarrassment at the praise tug at his mouth, Athos says. “Not at all, really.” Looking up, Athos makes sure he has d’Artagnans’ attention before he says, “I’m sure Charles exaggerates.” D’Artagnan doesn’t miss the slight emphasis Athos puts on his name. Athos watches him not miss it.

‘Asshole,’ d’Artagnan mouths at him as Athos takes Lisette’s hand and inclines his head toward her, smiling.

Hours later Lisette is sitting in the large, comfortable chair Aramis has vacated, and Porthos is dancing attendance on her with tea and compliments. D’Artagnan smiles at her, then looks when he hears a noise by the front door. Athos is wrapping his scarf around his neck and buttoning up his coat.

“I wanted to thank you,” d’Artagnan says, coming to stand in front of him.

“You already did,” Athos says. “And you didn’t have to do it either time; this was your wish.”

“No,” d’Artagnan says. “Not for the watch or for the shop, that’s. That’s not what I meant. I meant… thank you for being here.” D’Artagnan is standing a step too close; his aftershave is tickling Athos’ nose.

“Yes. Well.” Athos pushes the door open and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice d’Artagnan watching his mouth. Tries to pretend he isn’t staring at the curl of d’Artagnan’s lips. “You’re welcome,” he says and leaves. He can hear the bells ring as the door closes behind him.

Athos can still feel d’Artagnan’s eyes on the back of his neck even as he turns the corner at the end of the block.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the effects of having been continuously and diligently employed since his late teens, is that it takes d’Artagnan until the last day of his old job to realize that he can, in fact, take a break if he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I ought to apologize for letting Aramis have my traditional rant about the use and expense of spices in history, but I'm not going to. Half you guys have better sources for the info than I do, for one thing, because it's your rant, too.
> 
> I had thought this would be the last chapter, but rather than keep writing and just make it longer, I'm putting this up now and we'll finish it up with one more. Thanks for sticking with me and for all the amazing comments that have just made my day over and over again.

  
One of the effects of having been continuously and diligently employed since his late teens, is that it takes d’Artagnan until the last day of his old job to realize that he can, in fact, take a break if he wants to. He doesn’t _have_ to go straight to the bookstore. Ninon is there and she’s more than capable of dealing without him. She’d probably like it if he stayed out of her hair a bit longer while she finishes getting the routines down.

“Yes, please,” she says when he calls to ask if he can postpone his start date by a week. “Take two, it’ll give me a chance to finalize the internal policies before you come in here and ‘good cop’ everyone.” D’Artagnan can’t help but smile, she’s perfect.

“Athos will know where I am.”

“Mmm,” she hums and if there’s something else behind the tone of her voice, d’Artagnan isn’t pushing to find out.

He has the day to prepare so d’Artagnan goes all out, he makes the kind of meal he usually only makes on a Sunday afternoon or for piles of people. The ritual of the preparation makes him happy and the smells remind him of his grandparents. The cast iron pan is in the oven and the wine is chilled by the time d’Artagnan goes into his bedroom, reaches up to the top shelf of his bookcase and brings the lamp down.

It’s not too high, he could swipe it with his finger from here, there’s no need to take it in his hands and hold it before he rubs it, but he likes the feel of it. It’s heavier than it looks and even where it’s just plain stoneware it’s cool to the touch. D’Artagnan rubs at the words with the pad of his thumb and feels the familiar chill chase up his arm.

He puts the lamp back and goes into the hall and waits to hear Athos come through the front door, waits for him to walk in from the living room, but there’s nothing. Confused, d’Artagnan goes to the kitchen to take the paella out of the oven.

Athos is standing quietly at the counter, looking at the label on the wine.

“Jesus _Christ_!” d’Artagnan yells, clutching at the doorframe.

“You did actually summon me, I’m not sure what you were expecting.”

“I was expecting you to make a bunch of noise coming in from the other room like you always do. I was expecting you to knock on the front door because wouldn’t that be an amusing change of pace.”

“Well that wouldn’t be any fun, you’ve just told me that’s what you were expecting.” He holds up the bottle. “This looks delightful.”

D’Artagnan frowns at him, slightly irritated that even this far into their arrangement he’s still being surprised by Athos’ arrivals, still doesn’t have a handle on him. “Ninon picked it out.”

“Ah,” Athos says, as though that explains the quality.

“Pour some then if it looks so good.” D’Artagnan knows he’s crankier than the situation warrants, and he’s not sure why. The most likely explanation is that weeks after meeting Athos, d’Artagnan doesn’t feel like he actually knows the genie at all. What’s confusing is that he doesn’t know why that upsets him. His bad mood stays long enough for him to take the paella out of the oven and vanishes as soon as he sees the look on Athos’ face.

“I have always been fond of this dish,” Athos says, trying to wrestle the pleased look from his eyes.

“I have too, I don’t get nearly enough chances to make it.”

“What’s the special occasion?” Athos asks, pouring wine for them both.

“We’re celebrating the fact that I have a wish ready when you get here for once. There’s also the matter of me being off work now, so I have the time to prepare things like this.”

They take their plates and glasses to the table and sit opposite each other, eating in silence for a few minutes and just enjoying the meal.

“Are you putting off telling me for some kind of theatrical tension, or are you simply enjoying your meal?” Athos asks.

“Are you not enjoying it?” d’Artagnan asks, his voice worried.

“That’s not what I—,” Athos trails off when he catches d’Artagnan’s grin. “I will not feed your ego while you go fishing for compliments. It is an unobjectionable example of the paella species,” he says with an added dash of haughtiness just for effect.

“You love it,” d’Artagnan says and Athos can’t help the barest smile, he does love it. He stops just short of a little laugh at how the boy played him.

D’Artagnan leans back in his chair, sipping his wine. “I really was just eating, I wasn’t trying to draw this out.” His face falls a little. “I know you’re—.” He stops and drinks some more wine. “Anyway. My next wish.”

Athos gives a questioning hum and savors the texture of the rice.

“I was thinking,” d’Artagnan says, “that it’s been years since I got a proper holiday. And with Ninon running the shop and no other job I can spare the time. Would that— Is that—?” He trails off.

Athos doesn’t want to smile, doesn’t want to soothe the boy with kind words, but his face is worried and Athos can feel it tugging something long-forgotten. He’s given up trying to stop the feelings, now he’s just trying to keep them out of his expressions. He feels protective. He cares if this young man is sad. He is fucked.

“It’s fine, d’Artagnan.” Athos wipes his mouth and puts his cloth on the table. “It really is. I was wondering when you’d ask me for something properly indulgent.” When d’Artagnan starts to protest, Athos holds a hand up. “You didn’t ask for Constance, you just asked for a chance, and helping you find the woman of your dreams or the job of your dreams is more like a life plan than an indulgence. This is a holiday; it’s not for the long term and it’s not for someone else and you’re the only one who benefits. All of those things are _alrigh_ t, d’Artagnan.” There’s a pause while Athos thinks. "What do you know of me?”

D’Artagnan smiles. “You won’t let me have a shitty wish.”

“Then let us take that logic to its natural conclusion and say that if I am willing to grant you this, is not a shitty wish. Trust me, d’Artagnan. My standards extend this far.”

“I wish for my dream vacation.”

“More wine,” Athos says. “And then let’s talk about what that entails.”

D’Artagnan goes into the kitchen and comes back with the wine and his laptop. He turns it so the screen is facing Athos and says, “I was thinking about this.”

“This is somewhere secluded?” Athos asks? When d’Artagnan nods Athos asks, “Somewhere remote and private where not a lot of tourists go?” D’Artagnan nods again. “Have you given any thought to the fact that you don’t speak the language?”

“I have!” d’Artagnan says and Athos thinks that he should be scared about how triumphant d’Artagnan sounds. “I actually have two wishes tonight, and this one will be great for the future, too!”

Athos cocks his head and raises one eyebrow. The question is plain on his face as he drinks his wine.

“I wish I could speak, read and write any language I wanted.”

Athos stares at him; d’Artagnan stares back.

“I have been a genie since 1624, d’Artagnan. I have had hundreds of wishers. No one has ever asked me for that, and now that I hear it I wonder why no one did. What a fantastic wish.” Athos is so surprised he’s not even bothering to hide the pleasure on his face. “Well done.”

D’Artagnan feels his cheeks go hot and tries not to preen under the praise. Athos’ opinion has come to matter a great deal to him, more than it ought to, probably. The notion that Athos is pleased with him, is expressing approval and satisfaction, makes something in d’Artagnan’s belly twist.

They spend hours going through sites, lists, pictures, finding all the things that will make the trip special. “And you can just poof me there,” d’Artagnan says.

“Mm,” Athos finishes his wine. “I could, but then I would be depriving you of the opportunity to take a first-class international plane flight. It is… not to be missed if you have the opportunity. If you don’t enjoy it for the flight itself, you can take the opportunity to read.” D’Artagnan’s eyes light up.

“Will I get socks and a hot towel?”

Athos stares at him. “Yes. Let us disregard the food and level of comfort and service you’ll have at your disposal, those are unimportant. I see that now. They pale in comparison to the socks and hot towel which, yes, you probably will get.” He sounds so disgusted it’s almost as though his voice has rolled its eyes.

“Well, we can’t all be sophisticated creatures of the world, Athos. Some of us have to take our simple pleasures. Maybe if I keep having experiences like this, someday I can aspire to be a grump with a taste for expensive coffee and friends who wear too much eyeliner.”

This is the second time in one night that d’Artagnan has fucked with him and it is taking everything Athos has to keep the grin off his face. He really just can _not_ go about rewarding this behavior. Athos twists the grin into a smirk. “I really fucking hate that eyeliner.”

By this point, d’Artagnan has finished the washing up and he and Athos have planned all the important details. Any further time spent together would be simply for the pleasure of each others’ company and Athos knows he is already dangerously attached. He stands and gathers up the print-outs that d’Artagnan has given him.

“I think that’s all I need, then. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days with your itinerary and flight details. If you think of anything else you can tell Ninon, she’ll text me.”

“Well, you could always—.”

Athos interrupts him. “Would you mind getting my coat from the front room?”

“‘Course, yeah,” d’Artagnan says. He’s frowning as he walks into the front room, not sure why he would need Ninon to be the middleman when d’Artagnan could just as easily text Athos directly if he had the number. He’s still frowning when he looks at the coat rack and sees that there’s no coat there other than his own.

“Athos it’s not here, did you leave it somewhere else?”

“My mistake,” Athos calls, and d’Artagnan can almost hear a smile in his voice.

“What was that?” d’Artagnan asks as he walks into the kitchen, but Athos is gone.

 

  
Four days later a courier delivers a thick manila envelope to the bookstore. Ninon hands it to d’Artagnan where he’s curled in an armchair. “Your magic carpet is here, Aladdin.”

D’Artagnan looks at her and her smirk becomes a grin as she squeezes his shoulder. He’s told Ninon about Athos leaving so abruptly and she’s reassured him that it’s just how Athos is. Even when he likes people, he’s prickly. Aramis has been his best friend for hundreds of years but if you told Athos that he’d roll his eyes and say, ‘Well he certainly thinks so.’

“But he said if I wanted to get information to him I should have you text him. Why couldn’t he let me text him?”

“D’Artagnan. The only reason I have Athos’ phone number is because I bought him the phone. I essentially forced it on him and the only reason he keeps it is because he likes being able to play games on it when Aramis is trying to talk to him. He enjoys the noise Aramis makes when he’s frustrated.”

He gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, Ninon. I’ll get my moping out of your hair.”

“Please do. And take your terribly unattractive face with you when you go,” she says as she turns to walk away.

D’Artagnan doesn’t see Athos in the four days between the itinerary delivery and the day his flight leaves. He could call for Athos at any point, but every time he thinks of doing so he hears Athos’ voice say ‘ _If you rub the lamp, I have to come._ ’ The residual hurt is enough to keep d’Artagnan from reaching for the lamp. Still, he needs _some_ advice on how to pack for this sort of thing.

 

Which is how, two days before he’s due to leave, d’Artagnan has come to be standing in his bedroom, staring at Aramis and surrounded by every article of clothing he owns. Aramis is rubbing his forehead and his tone is clearly exasperated.

“You didn’t think, in your very productive wish-making date, to include appropriate clothing in the details?”

“No,” d’Artagnan says, “and I’m not wasting a wish on a wardrobe.”

Aramis looks offended to his core. “A good wardrobe is _never_ a waste, d’Artagnan.”

Porthos has his feet up on d’Artagnan’s coffee table and is watching TV. The sounds of a laugh track drift into the bedroom and d’Artagnan thinks wistfully of his comfortable couch. Aramis sighs and his look suddenly has a fondness to it. “Come on, let’s make the most of what we’ve got and you can go watch some horrible television with the love of my life while I make something for dinner.”

“You cook?” d’Artagnan asks.

“I do,” Aramis says, a twinkle sitting in the corner of his expression. “I’m at my best when I’m using spices to cover up the flavor of rotten meat like we did in the olden times, but I can make do with modern cuisine.”

D’Artagnan looks disgusted. “Did you really—?”

“Don’t believe that!” comes Porthos’ voice from the living room.

Aramis grins. “He’s right. It’s complete bullshit, always has been.” He picks up two shirts, holds them up next to each other and then folds them both and puts them in d’Artagnan’s suitcase. “For one thing, you really only make the flavor or rotting meat _worse_ if you add spices, but more importantly, who the fuck could afford spices? You’d spend three times its weight in gold trying to get ahold of pepper.” Aramis smoothes the wrinkles from a pair of cargo shorts and tries to keep the wrinkle of distaste from his nose. “Putting it on rotten meat would be like pissing on it and then throwing it out the window. We kept it under lock and key and only used it on the most important meals; we weren’t reckless, rich, or stupid.”

He pats at the pile of folded clothing that’s taken shape in and beside d’Artagnan’s suitcase. “Throw another clean shirt and some shoes suitable for a casual restaurant in there and you’ll be ready. Have fun,” Aramis says. “And keep the lamp in your carry-on. Don’t worry about customs, somehow they never really notice the lamps.”

“I should take the lamp?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Yes.” Aramis is deadly serious. “Not only do you not know whether or not you’ll need it, but also you don’t want to run the risk of anything happening to it if you leave it here.” He pats d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Take the lamp.” D’Artagnan concedes with a nod.

Aramis makes pasta with meat sauce. It’s not fancy but it’s perfect for the night and the mood and the company. Porthos sucks individual strands of spaghetti into his mouth. Aramis watches him, a flush creeping up his neck at the sight of Porthos’ lips pursing.

When d’Artagnan gets up to clear the dishes, Aramis catches sight of Athos’ glove sitting on the hall table. Walking to the table, he picks it up and turns it over in his hands, a secret smile playing on his mouth. He tucks the glove in his pocket and pats it gently. “Right, more wine then?” he asks.

The clock is straddling the line between ‘late’ and ‘very late’ when Aramis and Porthos finally gather up their things to go. Aramis excuses himself to the toilet just before they go and Porthos smiles at d’Artagnan.

“It’s a hell of a ride, but they’re great guys. Enjoy your trip, yeah?”

“I will; thanks, Porthos.”

Porthos gives him a hug and d’Artagnan tries not to think of how few of these he’s had recently. He gets a hug from Aramis as well, just before they leave. Aramis gives him an indulgent, happy smile. “Please don’t bring back anything communicable,” he says, patting d’Artagnan’s cheek. “Come along, you,” he says to Porthos, twining their fingers together.

D’Artagnan gives them a last wave as they punch the button for the lift. He locks the door, sinking against it and smiling.

 

The flight is, as Athos had predicted, amazing. He’s on the upper deck of a jumbo jet and spends twenty minutes just pushing buttons to see what they all do. The rest of the flight, he spends just trying to take it all in. There’s a layover and some time in a first class lounge better than any hotel d’Artagnan has ever stayed in. He takes the time to indulge in a shower and lunch and some shopping before he’s off on the final leg.

The resort is everything he dreamed. His ‘cabin’ is a one bedroom stilt house with sliding walls so that he can let the sunrise in. There is a stretch of beach in front of him, the ocean crashing over it only a handful of steps from the bottom of his stairs. As soon as he checks in, regardless of the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon, d’Artagnan drops his bags just inside the door and falls face-forward onto the illegally comfortable bed. The sound of the waves puts him to sleep almost immediately.

He wakes a few hours later, groggy but happy, and goes out to dig his toes in the sand and enjoy the sun on his face. With a determined look, he drags one of the low-slung chairs out to the edge of the water and sinks into it, his feet cooled by the waves and his nose buried in a book.

Between an afternoon spent napping and reading, and an evening filled with dinner and a long, leisurely walk back with the couple in the next cabin, d’Artagnan doesn’t unpack his bags until well into the next morning. Which is why it takes him so long to find the glove.

He is having a _wonderful_ time. This is exactly what d’Artagnan had hoped for, and he wouldn’t change a thing about it. He might, however, _add_ something. He might like some company. It would be nice to drag both low-slung chairs out and read next to someone, but that would mean someone he can just sit and be quiet with. D’Artagnan unwraps the lamp and tucks it in one of the dresser drawers.

The breakfast at the resort bar is big enough for two, which would mean that d’Artagnan’s theoretical companion would have to be someone he likes sharing meal time with, someone who talks but doesn’t overwhelm him. He’s hanging up his trousers and thinking that he’s really only met a handful of people he could do that with.

The tourist spots are nice, he thinks as he puts his toiletry bag on the bathroom sink, but they’d be nicer with someone who is interested in the details and history of a place. He wants to be here with someone he can banter with on the way to dinner and silently hold hands with on the way home. He smiles and thinks of poor Athos trying to compile all of this into a list for d’Artagnan’s final wish.

As if the thought itself is a spell, d’Artagnan reaches into the suitcase to pull out the one nice outfit Aramis had insisted he bring; when he lifts out the bundle of clothes, there is Athos’ glove. Setting the clothing aside, he picks it up. The outside is a sinfully soft kidskin, the inside a decadent wool. It smells like Athos, and d’Artagnan smiles.

Athos would love it here. He’d probably leave his chair under the shade, but he would enjoy reading on the beach. For once he might actually not be cold. D’Artagnan is rubbing his thumbs over the leather and thinking that Athos would be perfect to have for company, regardless of whether or not he fits all of d’Artagnan’s imaginary criteria. Though - and d’Artagnan can’t help but laugh - now that he thinks of it Athos fits pretty much — He stops and clutches the glove in his fist.

“Shit.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was (and still am) dealing with some personal issues. Hopefully this makes up for it! We've got one more after this and I'm so excited about some of the things that are revealed in it. And this time it won't take six weeks, pinky promise.

For once, when the lamp calls, Athos isn’t in a bookstore. He’s standing in line for coffee and d’Artagnan can damn well wait until that cup is in Athos’ hot little hand. Coffee acquired, he stops to type out a quick text to Aramis ( _Can’t make breakfast, FHLS called_ ) and then, in a blink, he’s standing outside the door to d’Artagnan’s cabin on the beach.

He doesn’t bother knocking, there’s no point really and he’s never done it before. “What did you forget to pack?” Athos asks as he walks out onto the enormous back deck.

D’Artagnan is standing with his back to the room, staring out at the strip of waves a few hundred feet away. He turns, smiling. “I didn’t, actually; in fact I got here with one more thing than I should have.” His hand stretches forward, Athos’ glove laid out across the palm.

Athos tilts his head to the side, his face spectacularly confused. “Is that my glove?”

“You left it at my flat, I must have accidentally grabbed it while packing.”

“So… you called me to the back end of nowhere, in the middle of your holiday, to give me my glove back.” His voice is dubious, but it isn’t a question.

D’Artagnan is blushing furiously, this is going exactly as poorly as he’d expected and the only option left is the truth. Or, in reality, _some_ of the truth. “I was hoping you’d get here and want to stay. Home is cold and miserable right now and you’re already so cold most of the time anyway. I’d enjoy your company while I’m here and I know that I get on your nerves, but I’m mostly here to read and be quiet anyway. You’ve done so much for me; you deserve a break.” When he finally stops to take a breath, he looks back up at Athos and the look on the genie’s face is completely unreadable.

Athos guesses that d’Artagnan’s explanation is partially true. He also knows that d’Artagnan likes company, enjoys having people around even if they’re not talking. The kind of solitude d’Artagnan is experiencing here at the resort can take some adjustment; not that he’d say that to d’Artagnan. Pointing it out would only be digging a knife in.

Nearly everything in him wants to stay. Almost every part of Athos wants to see d’Artagnan run in from the ocean, hair dripping in his eyes and smile broad across his face. The sun will darken his skin and his grin will just grow brighter. The idea of sharing meals, sharing long quiet afternoons, sharing drinks in the evening, is irresistible to almost all the parts of Athos’ heart. The only part of him still holding back, the part of him hearing the alarm klaxons in his head, is the part of him that knows how it will end.

Someday, most likely someday soon, d’Artagnan will realize that what he feels is infatuation for the power of the wishes, the draw of a more experienced partner. The wishes will end; d’Artagnan will get some experience of his own and no longer idolize Athos like he does now. He’ll realize that Athos is not the kind of man who can open his life up, someday he might even figure out why, and Athos doesn’t know that he could deal with that.

Even supposing he could get past any of that, d’Artagnan deserves more than to spend his life with a partner who is _literally_ untouchable. He deserves to feel fingers stroke his hair, thumbs against his cheekbones, kisses in the morning and being held at night. To get any of that with Athos, d’Artagnan would have to spend one of his wishes, would have to decide that having that hug is worth more than whatever he could have with that wish and the chance of finding love with someone else.

If he were a better man, someone capable of sparing himself the torture and d’Artagnan the wasted time, he’d say no and fuck off right back to his cozy flat and have breakfast with Aramis and forget about all of this.

He is not a better man.

Athos rolls his eyes and takes a drink from the enormous travel mug in his hand. “Theoretically it won’t _actually_ kill me to be away from home for a day or two, and it might— Wait, how is the coffee here?”

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan says. Everything in his voice is restrained excitement and he would be mortified to know how obvious it is.

Athos cocks an eyebrow.

“It’s better than fine, it’s amazing. Best I’ve had outside of Cloisters."

Athos can’t help the grin that sneaks over his face; d’Artagnan is trying so hard. “Well then, in that case, I believe you owe me lunch. Also, _you_ are responsible for finding me something to wear that isn’t winter-weight wool trousers.” He could go home to grab some clothes and have d’Artagnan summon him again, but Athos knows that if he leaves here he’ll never be able to make himself come back. The better angels of his nature will find him, or self-preservation, and he’ll think better of signing himself up for days of self-torture.

The resort owner lets d’Artagnan paw through the lost and found piles to see what he can find. Victorious, d’Artagnan returns to the cabin with a pair of light-weight khaki trousers without too many exterior pockets and a t-shirt in a mostly unobjectionable shade of green. D’Artagnan promises they’ve been washed since they were found.

“Well, I should certainly hope so!” Athos can’t help the snotty incredulity in his voice, and d’Artagnan can’t help his answering laugh.

 

Lunch is fresh fish wrapped in leaves and perfectly steamed. They split an order of tapioca chips and an enormous fruit plate. When they’re finished eating, they walk back to the cabin with absolutely no urgency. D’Artagnan points out the plants he’s curious about, the ones he wants to look up when he gets home. Athos tells him stories from the mythology of the area, swearing on his lamp that he’s not making any of it up.

They get the afternoon d’Artagnan had dreamed of the day before. Athos hauls a chair out close to the water but makes sure he’s tucked under some shade. He swipes one of d’Artagnan’s books and loses himself in it entirely. Or that’s how it seems to d'Artagnan.

In reality, Athos spends the afternoon hiding behind his sunglasses and sneaking looks at the boy in the chair opposite him. D’Artagnan will read for a while and then tilt his face up to the sun and sit with his eyes closed, smiling, for long minutes. When he grows too hot, he’ll run into the waves and come back out with his soaking wet shirt plastered to his body and his dripping hair clinging to his face. The sun dries his clothes in what seems like seconds, but Athos is fairly sure he will never recover.

When asked later Athos will make up something about dinner. He’s sure they ate, he’s even sure it was pretty good, but all he remembers from the evening is the moment it ends. Both of them have had more than a little wine and now they are standing in the bedroom with their defenses down just _staring_ at the bed.

“I can call the office and get them to send someone out with extra blankets; I’ll just grab a pillow and spend the night on the couch,” d’Artagnan says.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your room, your holiday, there’s no way you should sleep on the couch."

“Well I’m not making _you_ sleep on the couch,” d’Artagnan says. “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. You’d be back in your flat with your bed. So there’s no way you’re not getting the bed."

It’s the wine that speaks next. The wine and the evening and the sound of the waves and the knowledge that sometimes a little torture is better than a lifetime of regret. They all speak together, using Athos’ voice. “It’s a king sized bed, d’Artagnan. There’s no reason we can’t both sleep in it.” Athos will never be entirely sure who uses his voice to add on, “Put a line of pillows down the middle if you’re worried about your virtue."  
  
The fortification of pillows never materializes. Instead, Athos rests on his back, hands folded over his chest as he listens to the waves rolling in again and again. He can’t hear d’Artagnan breathing over the sound of the ocean, but when Athos turns his head, it seems like d’Artagnan is so close.

Curled on his side, facing Athos, d’Artagnan drops off to sleep in seconds. His face is slack except for a soft curl at one corner of his mouth and Athos reaches out a hand just to feel the warmth from just above his skin. He can’t quite get his hand far enough. D’Artagnan, he realizes as his fingers twitch, is just out of reach.

With a laugh that’s barely more than a scoff, Athos tucks his hand under his pillow and rolls onto his side to face d’Artagnan. He falls asleep staring at d’Artagnan's smile and hoping that his dreams will be kind.

 

It’s the shaking that wakes Athos the next morning. He’s in the middle of the bed, still facing the way he was when he fell asleep, but d'Artagnan has moved closer in the night. He’s moved closer and rolled his back toward Athos and now he’s laying wrapped in Athos’ arms. They’re both in sweatpants and socks, Athos had dressed for bed like he was putting on armor and d’Artagnan had gone along with it so Athos wouldn’t feel any more awkward than he already did. That’s the only reason they could have spent this long with their legs tangled together, no skin is actually touching.

For a second, Athos is utterly still, paralyzed with the realization that somehow, even with this massive bed between them, he’s managed to end up accidentally holding d’Artagnan as close as he’s wanted to for weeks. D’Artagnan’s body heat is seeping through his clothes and he is so warm against Athos. His hair smells like sea water and Athos can see the thump of d’Artagnan’s pulse in the bare skin behind his ear. Athos is startled out of the shock by the feeling of more shaking, and is suddenly aware that though everywhere else they’re touching is covered by fabric, his nose is brushing against the back of d'Artagnan's neck every time Athos shifts even a little.

Every time their skin skims together, d'Artagnan shudders from head to foot, and the realization makes Athos feel sick. Long afternoons in the sun and lunches are all good and well but this, _this_ , is why he can’t let their relationship move past the friendly or last any longer than is strictly necessary. Athos’ presence in his life is holding d’Artagnan back and d’Artagnan’s presence in Athos’ life is only going to hurt more every day.

He jerks his head back before he can accidentally brush against d’Artagnan again and begins to extricate his arms and legs. His limbs are free and Athos is almost fully dressed when he accidentally bangs his leg against the foot of the bed and jars d’Artagnan awake.

“Athos?"

“Sorry, knocked my knee. Go back to sleep."

D’Artagnan props himself up on his elbows and Athos works incredibly hard to not stare at the way the fabric of his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “You’re dressed. In your clothes. Are you— why are you dressed in your clothes?"

“I need to head home. You deserve some space to enjoy your holiday and while I really enjoyed the rest, I need—I just have to leave."

D’Artagnan scrambles out of the bed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Athos, you can’t go, I—."

Athos continues as though d’Artagnan has never spoken. "When you’re home from your holiday, get in touch and we’ll work on your last couple of wishes. Get you what you really want.”

He’s trying to decide whether to continue attempting to put his shoes on or just go home with them shoved under his arm when d'Artagnan says, “What I really want?"

“Yes, d’Artagnan,” Athos looks up from his shoes and meets d’Artagnan’s eyes. “Your dream girl. Someone gorgeous and just right for you."

“Someone gorgeous?” D’Artagnan wonders when he’ll be able to come up with something to say that isn’t just echoing the end of Athos’ sentences.

“Yes, d’Artagnan. Can’t have you be the only stunner on the Christmas card now can we?"

D’Artagnan crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits. He shrugs nervously. “Well… _you’re_ very handsome.”

It’s almost a question, and that’s what makes Athos look up.

“I beg your pardon?"

“You said I should have someone gorgeous, and I was just pointing out that, well, you fit that."

Athos’ face is a study in confusion. “Yes, but I’m an immortal being of near-limitless power, whereas _you_ like girls.”

D’Artagnan is nearly indignant. “Not _just_ girls.”

Athos sighs and stands, turning to look out at the water. “Be that as it may, this is about more than the exterior. You need someone you can live with, someone you can hold and grow old with. We’ll work on a list, make sure she fits all the things you want—."

“Athos, I want _you_ ,” d'Artagnan says, loud and forceful, and the interruption startles Athos enough that he stops talking. “I don’t want some girl who fits all the requirements you and I come up with during dinner, I want you. I want that dinner with you. Always. That’s what I want. And if you’re so concerned with the damn requirements then rest assured you meet them all!"

Athos turns and stares at him.

D’Artagnan straightens his shoulders. “I wish there weren’t any negative effects to your touch."

“What?” The conversation seems to be spinning away from Athos faster than he can see, the ground isn’t solid under his feet.

“Like with Aramis. That’s how it was worded, right? That’s how he managed to make it so he could touch anyone, forever, not just that one wisher. He said it was all about the wording so I want to get this right.” He pauses for a breath. "I wish there weren’t any negative effects to your touch."

“No."

“You can’t do that. You’ve talked me out of wishes, but you can’t outright refuse me, and I wish for this.” D’Artagnan’s face is more serious than Athos has ever seen.

Athos squeezes his eyes shut so tightly his forehead starts to hurt. When he finally speaks his voice is pinched and hard. “Your wish is my com—,” but before he can finish, d’Artagnan’s hands are on his face, warm and dry and Athos can’t hold in a gasp. It’s been nearly four hundred years since he’s felt someone else’s skin against his own who wasn't another genie, and he is momentarily dizzy.

Oh, god. Oh god, he’d forgotten how _good_ this felt. So good. He’d forgotten how the pressure of someone else’s hands on you could seem like a tether to them. He’d forgotten how if he concentrated he could feel his skin tingle under someone else’s touch.  
  
“I’m going to kiss you now,” d’Artagnan says. “Know why?”

His thumbs are brushing over Athos’ cheeks and Athos has his eyes closed. Athos' hands have stilled in their path to push d’Artagnan back and are just hanging in the air while he is trying to breathe. “I can not begin to fathom."

“Because I like you.” D’Artagnan laughs and leans in. “And because now I _can_.”

Even if he hadn’t spent centuries touch-starved and kiss-deprived, the feel of d’Artagnan’s mouth against his own would still have made Athos moan. D’Artagnan seems to have decided that this might be the only chance he gets and he’s not wasting it. It’s not fast or messy, but it’s not pulling any punches either. He takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue over Athos’ lips, to suck lightly at the lower one and lick the needy sounds right out of his mouth.

When d’Artagnan draws back, Athos’ eyes are still closed. They don’t open until d’Artagnan starts to talk. Athos can almost see how much it took for d’Artagnan to kiss him because it seems now all that cocksure confidence has suddenly drained away. “That’s all I wanted. I just wanted to be able to show you how much you’re the one I want. I won’t kiss you again if you don’t want, and I worded the wish so you don’t have to be alone anymore even if you don’t want me. You just deserve to—.”

Athos’ hands have fisted in d’Artagnan’s shirt and tugged him close. “Stop. Talking.” D’Artagnan nods mutely and feels his own eyelids sink closed as Athos kisses him.

This time, Athos can feel d’Artagnan open under him. D’Artagnan’s helpless sigh is hot and warm against Athos’ skin and the little whines are soft sounds in Athos’ ears. He cups the back of d’Artagnan’s neck with one hand and the side of his face with another. He never wants to be touching fabric again, not when he could be touching skin.

D’Artagnan’s hands are tight on Athos’ biceps, holding him close as though he is afraid Athos will change his mind and vanish straight from d’Artagnan’s grasp. Athos smiles against d’Artagnan’s mouth at the idea of this amazing boy trying to circumvent the miracles of metaphysics that his genie can perform just by sheer force of will and the strength of his grip. How he resisted d’Artagnan as long as he did, Athos will never know.

They’re still standing next to the bed and once they stop for breath, all Athos can do is envision the decadent sprawl of d’Artagnan’s brown limbs across the white sheets, thoroughly debauched. D’Artagnan, it seems, is of a similar mindset. With his hands still on Athos’ arms, he pushes and steers until Athos is sitting on the edge of the bed. Athos slides backward, drawing d’Artagnan in until he’s straddled across Athos’ lap, kissing him again and laughing.

 

It takes a while, hours even, but some time that afternoon, after a late breakfast of stale protein bars that d’Artagnan had shoved in his carry-on and the best sex and kisses of either of their lives, Athos finally gets to see d’Artagnan laid out against the sheets. He’s dozing in a shaft of sunlight that’s snuck into the bedroom and his face is slack and soft in sleep.

Athos reaches across the bed, just like he had the night before. This time he isn’t content with feeling the warmth of d’Artagnan’s skin from a hair’s breadth away. Athos sinks his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hair and pushes it back from his face, feeling it heavy and smooth against his hand. He strokes d’Artagnan’s cheek, tucks his hair behind his ear and brushes his thumb down the side of d’Artagnan’s neck.

This time when Athos wakes with his arms wrapped around d’Artagnan the only movement is the subtle and entirely unconscious hitch of d’Artagnan’s hips back against Athos’ groin. Soon enough they’ll have to go home, they’ll have to deal with d’Artagnan’s last wish and everything that might happen after. If he let it, that thought could loom over Athos for the rest of the day. Instead, Athos smiles and presses a kiss to the side of d’Artagnan’s neck. In his sleep, the corner of d’Artagnan’s mouth curls up again and Athos can’t help but touch it. It’s possible that when it comes to d’Artagnan, Athos will never get tired of touching. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D’Artagnan is wearing only a pair of ragged shorts and Athos can’t keep his hands to himself, doesn’t see any reason why he should. He puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and strokes down until his fingers are tracing over d’Artagnan’s collar bone. Taking Athos’ fingers in his own, d’Artagnan presses kisses to the pad of each finger.
> 
> He doesn’t look away from the water as he says, “I still have one wish left."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming with me on this fun, silly little trip. Thank you for looking at the summary and saying, "Genies? Really?" and then reading anyway. Thank you Cee, Dee, Liz, Karen, Pixie and Te. All of you either validated this story for me or gave me fantastic things to read when I wanted to kick my laptop into a wall. I am the luckiest.

The next morning it’s d’Artagnan who wakes first It has to have been because when Athos wakes up there’s a mug on the nightstand and the coffee in it is still hot. Athos takes the mug and goes out to stand behind d’Artagnan’s chair on the back deck.

D’Artagnan is wearing only a pair of ragged shorts and Athos can’t keep his hands to himself, doesn’t see any reason why he should. He puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and strokes down until his fingers are tracing over d’Artagnan’s collar bone. Taking Athos’ fingers in his own, d’Artagnan presses kisses to the pad of each finger.

He doesn’t look away from the water as he says, “I still have one wish left."

“You have another wish, yes,” Athos says and d’Artagnan entirely misses the careful phrasing.

He turns his face up to look at Athos and Athos is struck again by how incredibly beautiful he is. Now that Athos is letting himself look, letting himself touch and kiss and treasure, he finds himself constantly amazed. “Can I wish you free?” d’Artagnan asks.

Athos twists his fingers, clutching d’Artagnan’s hand in his own. “No."

“Have you tried?"

“No,” Athos says. “I didn’t have to.” When d’Artagnan shoots him a questioning look, Athos just says, “Trust me. I asked, and I got all the answer I needed."

“Will you tell me?” d’Artagnan asks, standing up from the chair and wrapping his arms around Athos.

Athos buries his nose in d’Artagnan’s neck and thinks that the day before he wouldn’t have dreamed of answering that question with anything but a sharp denial. It seems this floppy-haired little shit has altered his life in ways Athos can’t even consider reversing. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he never wants to talk about it, but he knows that d’Artagnan won’t let it go until he gets an answer. D'Artagnan deserves to know, and Athos— he sighs and thinks about all the times Aramis has told him this very thing — Athos deserves to have someone else help him carry the weight of this memory.

“Breakfast first,” Athos says, and he can feel d’Artagnan’s smile against his skin.

“I suppose this means I have to put a shirt on."

  
When d’Artagnan is nervous, he picks at things— paper napkins, his own fingernails, the skin of a nearly-overripe fruit. Looking at Athos, though, there’s no sign that this conversation is taking nearly everything he has. He is staring out at the waves, one hand folded on his lap and the other softly resting on the table, and his voice is quiet and steady.

“Once, when I had another name and another life, I was very much in love.” He swallows and it’s the first sign that this is anything other than an ordinary conversation. “I sometimes wish I could look back and excuse it with youthful folly or being misled by an evil temptress. But no, I was in love with her and she was in love with me. She’d told me, right from the very beginning, who she was — _what_ she was. I think she hoped it would frighten me away and save us both the heartache, but when I fell in love with a genie, I did it with my eyes wide open."

D’Artagnan smiles softly and stops destroying a paper napkin so he can slide his hand across the table and lay it over Athos’. “Me too,” d’Artagnan says and Athos hopes his face looks calm and serene, rather than looking like he’s just been hit very hard in the back of the head, which is how he _feels_.

Athos’ thumb rubs over d’Artangnan’s hand and he smiles. “Later,” d’Artagnan says. “Go on."

Staring down at where their hands are joined, Athos says, “I would have done anything for her. I wanted to. I had her lamp, but I’d only ever used it to wish for things for both of us. Silly things, in hindsight, but I had everything I truly needed as long as I had her, so I could use my wishes on things like the weather.” He huffs a quiet laugh and remembers the precise blue of the sky that day, how it was exactly as he’d wished.

“The only thing that could have spoiled our happiness was if someone else got her lamp, if someone took her away from me. I couldn’t stand the thought, but I also didn’t want to spend our lives together with her knowing she was essentially enslaved to me. She was so strong, so fierce, and even a long chain is still a chain.” He sighs and signals the server for more coffee.

“I asked her, I begged her, to let me free her from the lamp. She said it wasn’t possible, that she’d tried to wish her predecessor free and he’d told her the rules. You can’t wish a genie free, but you can take the genie’s place. I said I would do it, I _wanted_ to do it, and she fought me worse than I ever fought you.” The fresh coffee is set in front of him and Athos takes the opportunity for a small break. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, smelling the coffee and the sea and the warmth of d’Artagnan’s skin.

“In the end we agreed, the only way it could be even is if we took turns. A year at a time, that was the arrangement. For a few weeks, nothing changed, but she’d always wanted to travel on her own terms, not just being drawn by the lamp. So she wished for trips, you have that in common. I would send her to these beautiful locations and then I would feel the lamp pull and I would go join her. It was—,” he pauses and just lets the pain wash over him. “It was perfect. Then one day I felt the lamp and when I answered the pull, I found it in the hands of someone I had never met."

D’Artagnan twists his fingers in Athos’ grip. “Athos, you don’t have to—."

“I promise, I’m almost finished.” He takes another deep breath. “She still loved me, as I still loved her, if she hadn’t she’d have been able to tell me to my face. But I suppose, in the end, she loved her freedom more, and the closer we came to the time when we’d have to switch, the less she could stand the idea of being tethered to the lamp— even with me holding it."

D’Artagnan grabs Athos’ hand in both of his and tugs on it until Athos turns to face him. “Athos. _Athos_. You know I would _never_ do that. We won’t be apart during our turns, we’ll—."

“Of course you won’t do that,” Athos interrupts, perfectly calm. D’Artagnan relaxes just a bit before Athos continues. “Because you’re never going to have a turn. I would — No. You’ll never be tethered to a lamp.” He squeezes d’Artagnan’s hand. “You could force me like you did yesterday, but I’m asking you not to.” He closes his eyes and the pain is clear on his face. “I’m _begging_ you not to."

Athos leans his elbows on the table and reaches across to brush a few strands of d’Artagnan’s hair back behind his ear. “We’ll put the lamp in a vault somewhere. We’ll just leave it there and live our lives.”

Leaning his head into Athos’ touch, d’Artagnan feels a warm palm cup his cheek. “I won’t, then.” He turns and kisses Athos’ hand. “I won’t."

The rest of lunch is quiet, easy. They walk back to the cabin with their hands clasped, d’Artagnan is barefoot in the sand and grass. “What _should_ I wish for, then?"

Athos smiles, he doesn’t even try to stop it. He seems to have decided that if the universe and d’Artagnan combined have worked this hard to get him here, in this place in this day, he’s not going to fight. Things might change when they go home, but for here and now he’s in it up to his neck. He kisses d’Artagnan’s knuckles. “It’s not my wish. You don’t have to decide now."

“True. You’re right, I don’t know why I’m rushing. We should ask Aramis and Porthos. I’m trying to imagine what Aramis would suggest and I —,” he shakes his head, laughing.

Athos’ smile falls a bit. “They’ll be gone by the time we get back. They won’t be home for at least a week, perhaps two."

Hearing the change in tone, d’Artagnan tugs Athos to a stop. “Are they okay? Is everything…” he trails off, not even wanting to imagine all the things that could be not ‘okay.'

“They’re fine,” Athos smile is fond and reassuring. “They’re just working on something. They’re… antiquing."

D’Artagnan drops his shoes just inside the front door of the cabin; he throws a confused look at Athos. “If they’re just shopping, why did you sound sad?"

Athos rakes his fingers through his hair and decides there is coffee in his near future. The motions of measuring, starting the pot, these all give him the distraction he needs to keep going. “That’s what they call it. When they go out to every dusty corner shop and antique store they can find.” One side of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile. He looks up at d’Artagnan and says the words, plain and simple.

“They’re looking for Aramis’ lamp."

The silence stretches out between them and d’Artagnan comes over to stand next to Athos. He takes Athos’ hand in his own, just to feel the pressure of their skin touching. It is still so wonderfully new.

“I… they never seemed worried."

“Aramis likes to play the Exalted of the Lamp; he likes to pretend he is a blithe spirit with no worries in the world. He is partly right. I will tell you a secret, d’Artagnan though I am sure you knew it already if you stop to think about it. There is really only one thing that could ever hurt Aramis, and that is the idea of something hurting Porthos."

D’Artagnan winces, it is all to easy for him to see how that would be the case. It is all to easy for him to think about how much worse it would hurt him to see Athos in pain than to be in pain himself. “ _Is_ Porthos hurting?"

Athos raises their hands, taking d’Artagnan’s in both of his, turning it over and tracing over the lines of his palm. “Not yet, perhaps. But he… he worries."

That look on Athos’ face, d’Artagnan recognizes that face. In that expression, d’Artagnan can see all the times that Porthos has had one more glass of wine than prudence would dictate and confessed his fears. Ever time he used the opportunity of Aramis doing the washing up to talk to unburden himself to Athos. D’Artagnan thinks if he tried hard enough he could hear Porthos’ voice talking about how worried he is that someone will get that lamp before they do, how he wakes up at night clutching at Aramis just to know he’s still there, that he hasn’t been dragged across the world at the whim of a stranger.

D’Artagnan can’t imagine Aramis’ life if the person who found his lamp were cruel. It hurts him just to think about; it must nearly kill Porthos. All of Aramis’ glorious wildness, his generous laughter, all that spirit, crushed a little every day just by being beholden to someone who isn’t Porthos.

“I wish for them to find Aramis’ lamp.” The sentence rushes out of him, taking all his breath with it. Athos can almost see the tightness across d’Artagnan’s chest. He opens his mouth to speak, but d’Artagnan doesn’t let him get a word out. “No, don’t ask it. I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure. I wish for them to find Aramis’ lamp. Today. Now."

Athos kisses him until d’Artagnan runs out of breath.

  
It’s after dinner before the phone rings, and really, Athos is impressed it took this long. He smiles and, catching d’Artagnan’s expression, he says, “It’s Aramis.” Athos slides his thumb across to answer it. “Yes?"

From across the room, d’Artagnan yells, “You’re welcome!” Athos shoots him a look and waves at him to be quiet.

“I’m sorry, I missed that, what?"

Athos imagines that d’Artagnan can hear Aramis screaming voice from where he’s standing. “DID YOU KNOW YOU COULD BE WISHED FREE?!"

There is an almost audible thump as Athos’ heart stops in his chest and then starts again. He puts the phone down on the kitchen counter and gently presses the speaker button. His voice is nearly vibrating.

“Come again?"

It happens like this:

Porthos knows he can’t wish Aramis free. He’d asked early on, when they still thought they would find the lamp around the next corner, when their hopes were still high. Aramis hadn’t ever had someone to ask, and when he did find someone they didn’t know either. Athos’ answer was the first definitive one he’d ever received. So he breaks the bad news to Porthos and Porthos kisses the sadness from his smile and they take it as an accepted fact.

On this day, after they’ve come barreling back through the door, Porthos clutching the ornately decorated silver lamp to his chest and Aramis’ eyes on fire with joy, they spare a moment to be wistful.

“It’s a shame, is all,” Porthos says.

“I know, my love.”

Porthos strokes his thumb over the curling vine tooled into the side of the lamp, just feeling the design under his finger. “All the wishes in the world and that would be my only one. I wish you were free."

Aramis kisses him, wet and sweet and sloppy. “I would grant that wish for you. Your wish,” he presses another kiss to Porthos’ mouth, “is my command."

“Is it now?” Porthos’ look is a leer.

“Oh, Porthos. You have never needed wishes to get that.”

Later, covered in sweat, lips bruised with kisses, Porthos grins down at Aramis. “Oh, I've got one. I wish we were on holiday with them. Reckon they’ve got their act together by now.”

“Ooh, lovely.” Aramis kisses him back and in his mind he reaches for the wish.

Nothing happens. For the first time in thousands of years, nothing happens.

“Again,” Aramis says.

“I wish we were on holiday with Athos and d’Artagnan."

“Wish granted,” Aramis says, but again, nothing happens.

Porthos’ eyes grow enormous. He grabs his jeans from beside the bed and tugs them on, pulling a ratty t-shirt over his head. There is time for a quick kiss to Aramis’ mouth and then Porthos snatches the lamp and his phone and runs out the door. By the time Aramis finds his phone and calls him, Porthos three blocks away.

“Where are you _going_?"

“To the shop. I’m testing something! You just be patient. I’ll see you in a minute, one way or another.”

Aramis frowns at the phone and starts pacing. It rings again five minutes later and Porthos is so excited he can hardly speak. “Did you feel that?"

“I feel irritated that you ran out of here without a word while I’m trying to — oh. You rubbed it didn’t you?"

“I did,” Porthos says, and Aramis can hear his grin. “And you didn’t feel a fucking thing.” The door bursts open and Porthos comes into the flat, throwing his phone down on the couch and snatching Aramis up in his arms. They kiss like two people who never have to separate again if they don’t feel like it. Which, with the exception of certain necessary physical requirements, is entirely true. Aramis is free.

  
Back in the beach cabin, Aramis’ ecstatic voice is ringing out from the speaker on Athos’ phone. “I said you can be wished free! We just— we never thought to try. We never had someone who wanted to try.”

But Athos did. D’Artagnan had wanted to try. Now, after all of this, after Athos’ story and Aramis’ news, it might be too much to hope that he still wants to try. Athos looks up to meet d’Artagnan’s eyes and sees that d’Artagnan’s sun-darkened face has gone gray. Athos hangs up on Aramis, he’ll apologize later. “What is it?"

“I— I used my last wish. I don’t. I’m not sorry I did it. And if I hadn’t given them this we would never have known.” His voice starts to speed up and it’s taking on a frantic note. “Maybe we could give your lamp to Porthos and he can wish you free as well. I wanted to give you that, but it doesn’t matter, really, who it comes from. Can we do that? Can I just give Porthos your lamp?” He isn’t slowing down; Athos crosses the cabin and takes d’Artagnan’s face in his hands. “I don’t know how this works. I just—.”

“Stop.” Athos cuts him off. “Sit down with me. I have to tell you something and when I’m finished, I need you to forgive me."

D’Artagnan drops to the couch as though someone has cut his strings.

Athos brushes the hair from d’Artagnan’s forehead. “How many wishes did you have?"

“Ten."

“And who told you there were ten?"

“You did.” It’s not a question, but d’Artagnan’s face is confused.

“No, _you_ did. I asked you if you wanted ten wishes and you said yes.”

He can see d’Artagnan replaying the scene in his mind, can see him reaching for the conclusion that’s just beyond him. “How many wishes am I actually allowed?"

“As many as you want.” Athos does not have it in him to be sorry, but he has the good grace to look just a little chagrined. “It’s a self-defense mechanism. I learned it from Aramis, of course. The wisher limits himself. When he’s done, he gets rid of the lamp and we can get back to our lives. Until the next one comes along, at least."

“So… So I—?"

“As many as you want."

D’Artagnan’s smile is blinding. “I only need one.” He grins and Athos has no choice but to kiss him.

  
When it comes time, later, after they’ve debauched the huge walk-in shower _and_ the long chaise on the back deck, it turns out d’Artagnan actually needs two wishes.

“Will Aramis grow old now? Will you?"

Athos is dragging the knuckle of d’Artagnan’s forefinger across his mouth, biting at it, softly. “I honestly don’t know.”

D’Artagnan looks devastated. “What will Aramis do if he has to watch Porthos grow old and die.” Athos can’t decide if d’Artagnan is too unsure of their new relationship to believe Athos would feel the same pain at d’Artagnan’s increasing years, or if he’s truly generous enough of spirit to only be thinking of others. Either way it deserves a kiss.

They’re sinking into each other, deepening the kiss when d’Artagnan stops and sighs.

“What?"

“Aramis says it’s all in the wording, but I can’t find a fancy way to say it.” His hands are folded on Athos’ chest and he props his chin up on one fist. “It’s only… I don’t want Aramis to have to go through that. If things— if things keep going well with us, I don’t want _you_ to have to go through that. I suppose I just… I wish we didn’t have to die."

“Me, too.” Athos smiles, and then his brain comes to a screeching halt. It’s not starting a life. It’s not ending a life. It’s the opposite, in fact, and all there is to risk is the same fate they were willing to accept just a moment ago. “Your wish is my command,” he says, kissing d’Artagnan on the nose just to watch it wrinkle up as he grins. D’Artagnan’s eyes fly wide.

“Is it that easy?"

“I don’t know, honestly. This one I’ve never tried."

“I suppose,” d’Artagnan says with a smile, “all we can do is enjoy every day we have and hope those days never end."

“You really are disgustingly optimistic, aren’t you? Is it too late for me to get out of this?” He’s trying so hard to keep his tone flat, but Athos is betrayed by the quirk of his mouth and the laugh lines around his eyes.

For a moment, he worries that d’Artagnan will think he’s being serious, but d’Artagnan only laughs and bites at the skin over his heart. “Yes, far too late."

“What else will you wish for? Now that you have all the wishes you could want stretched out in front of you?"

D’Artagnan scoots up on the bed until he is looking Athos straight in the eye. “I wish you free."

Athos’ throat is tight, it seems like all the air has left the room and all the sounds are perfectly sharp. “Nothing else?"

When d’Artagnan answers, his voice is unvarnished and sincere. “I wish you free."

He lays it at Athos’ feet, just like that. Simple and easy. He doesn’t want anything for himself, he doesn’t want Athos to have to earn it or pay for it. He wants Athos to know freedom more than he wants all the wishes he could have, all the ways his life could be different. It is more powerful a show of love than any flowery declaration could ever be. _I choose your happiness over everything your power could bring me_ , it says.

He hopes, of course, Athos knows this. He hopes that now that Athos has every choice in the world he will choose d’Artagnan in return. But there are no strings on this offering. This thing that Athos had given up on centuries ago has come to him now, all unasked for and unexpected.

“Granted,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan is the only choice for him.

 

It’s their last night in the beach house and they make love on the back deck, under the stars. Anyone passing by on the beach would be scandalized to see d’Artagnan riding Athos, his head thrown back and all that hair silver in the moonlight. Neither of them cares, at all.

“Can we just stay here?” d’Artagnan asks, later. He’s not serious, of course. He misses his shop and Ninon and his mother. He misses Aramis and Porthos. Athos knows this is just the wistful tones of the end of every holiday.

“Mmm,” he says, kissing the curve of d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Well, we _could_ have, but you went and got rid of your genie.” D’Artagnan elbows him in the ribs. "On the other hand, you are self-employed and I am disgustingly wealthy. So I suppose trips like this could be in our future."

“Are you?” d’Artagnan asks, surprised as much as he is teasing. This is just one of thousands of things about Athos he doesn’t know, things he is so excited to learn. “Well, that’s done it. You’ll never be rid of me now."

Athos cups the side of his face, running a thumb over one of d’Artagnan’s eyebrows. He can feel the smile on his own face and knows that he’s never looked like this before in his life.

He leans in close, lips brushing over d’Artagnan’s in a precursor to the first kiss of the rest of forever. “Oh, that _is_ a pity."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They use the lamp as a planter, which everyone thinks is hilarious.  
> Until Porthos’ cat dies, and they put the ashes in Aramis’ lamp. Everyone agrees that’s better.
> 
> Bonus points if you realized that rather than being some wanky poetry quote, like I normally do, the title is the second line of "I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair."


End file.
